Falling Slowly
by WhiteDahlia13
Summary: Not all of Lydia's memories were recovered the night Stiles came back from the Wild Hunt. Some of them took a little longer... There were still intensely vivid memories, sculpted in quiet moments; the calms before and after the storm. Moments when she could literally feel herself falling, and his arms were always there to catch her.
1. Sun Showers

I will love you in memories to be made, and thus far. I will love you in memories, and the memories will be many. – Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

Lydia presses her palms against the cold metal of the door handle. She uses her forward momentum to push down as she steps out of the fluorescence of the school hallway and into the vibrant golden sunlight of mid-afternoon.

It's a clear day towards the end of May, not a single cloud in the sky. A transient breeze gusts through towering oak trees that are bursting with new leaves, casually swishing the hem of Lydia's floral mini skirt against her thighs as it passes. The air, warm and fragrant, offers the promise that summer is just around the corner.

 _Summer._ There is an entire summer _with Stiles_ to look forward to – Lydia can picture it. Lazy days, basking in the warmth of the sun. Toes tickled by grass, dotted with dew and fragrant wildflowers. Feet impressing upon powdery grains, making memories in the sand. Ankles submerged in clear ocean waves, nothing on the horizon but endless sky and limitless love. Bare skin and damp hair. Sharing ice cream, and laughter, and kisses long and slow. Tender touches, lingering glances, and secrets deep and dark; hand in hand with the boy who captured her heart. Still nights, walking under distant stars that light the way to creaking screen doors, silent hallways, and cozy bedrooms with open windows, crisp sheets, and fluffy pillows. Wind-dried tresses tickling exposed skin and sand-polished fingers exploring under clothing. Sharing chocolate peanut butter cups and long-held hopes through whispered tones, laced with delicate caresses and emblazoned with emotion. Cheeks blushing to pink, breaths synchronizing, hearts pounding, lips connecting with the young man she loves.

She shakes her head at the lighthearted train of thought that has overtaken her mind and approaches the parking lot. Wandering thoughts, such as these would make Lydia feel giddy…if she were foolish enough to be in touch with such a silly emotion. She tells herself that she is not. But then, her eyes shift upwards and she pauses at the sight of him – suddenly reminded that she _is_ capable of feeling giddy, and if she is honest with herself, she might even like it too… _and it's all because of Stiles_. He did this to her – he softened the edges, detected more than an image, coaxed her from detachment, left imprints on her heart…and she loves him for it. _She loves Stiles._ She and Stiles are together. He is her…boyfriend?

 _Boyfriend._ That word does him no justice. Humankind has not come up with a word that encompasses what Stiles is to her…at least not in any language she knows. He is the person who knows her better than anyone, who doesn't refrain from telling her how he feels about her. The one who believes in her, the one whom she relies on, the one who finishes her sentences. The one who makes her laugh, who holds her when dreams turn into nightmares, who dries and kisses away her tears, who calls her smart and beautiful, but also calls her out when she is being less than forthcoming…and always listens, and never judges. The one whom she is terrified of losing, but who also offers her hope and fills her with a joy so expansive and so overwhelming that she can hardly describe it.

For the first time, Lydia feels genuinely happy and complete. Nothing like three months ago.

 _Three months._ Three months without the sound of his voice or its many shades, ranging from sweetness to sarcasm. Three months without the touch of his gentle hands, the brilliant gold light in his eyes, shy crooked grin, strong arms, and tethering presence. Three months of too much quiet and too much stillness. Three months without the comforting noise of his incessant finger tapping, pacing, fidgeting, and humming. Three months without once seeing _that look_ – the one he is giving her right now. The one that fills her with warmth on even the coldest night. The one that makes her entire body tense and soften at the same time. The one that makes her excited and a little bit scared. The one that brings the butterflies and tugs at her heart like a magnet. The one that parts the clouds, reveals the sun, pulls the moon a little lower, and makes the stars shine a great deal brighter. The one that silently shouts _I love you_ across any distance, great or small. Three months without any of it. Three months…when he was gone.

 _Stiles was gone._ Not from her heart – because she knew he was real – but out of her grasp, stripped from her mind, peeled back like wallpaper over blank spaces. _Her Stiles_ – reduced to a lingering thought she couldn't reach, a glimmer of possibility that has been silently shaping her dreams. Gone, until she got it all back…got him back. One week ago, Stiles found his way back to her.

 _One week._ One week since he said she didn't have to. One week since their entire bodies collided in the most passionate kiss she had ever experienced; when she willingly gave her breath to him, and Stiles expanded her lungs and her life with his own. Their mouths fit together like puzzle pieces, and his hands were everywhere – drawing her nearer and nearer until their bodies were one. All the feelings were there – overflowing, and spreading, and mingling together…like he was never gone. One week, and she hasn't once withheld the dimple-framed smile that takes shape on her face every time she sees him. She can't help it. _Why should she even try?_ After months of emptiness, Stiles cast away the hollow void, when he told her it was _her voice_ that beckoned him home.

Months of emptiness purged by a downpour of reclaimed memories; saturating her mind, flooding her body, submerging her soul – in Stiles. Memories of _him_ and of them _together_ that washed away the longing, and the wondering, and the vast aching pain in her chest. Giving her back the spark, the reason, the love she never knew she could have. Reminding her with a sharp twinge of regret, of the many times all she had to do was reach out – he was there, and he could have been hers, if she let him. He could have been hers, he should have been hers…after all that time, she was his.

Memories of his name ringing in her ears. _What the hell is a Stiles?_ Memories of when he said _dance with me_ , called her smart, told her to scream if that's what would help. Reminding her that she is _something_ , not just a girl. Pleading with her to _focus on his voice,_ and selflessly confronting a maniacal threat, shouting _TURN IT OFF_ …so she wouldn't lose her way. The awakening bliss of their first kiss, pure and bright, on a dirty locker room floor. The one that steadied his breaths and rattled hers. The one that made it all make sense, helped her _figure it out_ – that the stirring she felt beneath her ribs had a name…and that name was _Stiles_. Memories that tell her _don't go doubting yourself_ and of burning desire tied up in red string. Memories of his arms around her in the darkness, how he saved her life, and when he told her he loved her…but she didn't say it back.

But the passing of that first tempest rain didn't fill the reserve. Apprehensive clouds withheld a select few. There were still intensely vivid memories, sculpted in quiet moments; the calms before and after the storm. Moments when she could literally _feel_ herself falling, and _his_ arms were always there to catch her.

Those subtle, yet profoundly ingrained moments of unexpected significance, seem to want to reveal themselves slowly, deliberately, carefully in time.

Lydia is learning each day. Remembering each day. Reason after reason. Experience after experience. Another insight into the how, and the why, and the when she fell in love with Stiles. She relives these moments – falling _deeper and deeper_ …all over again.

Each day, some seemingly unimportant stimulus triggers a memory that knocks her back on her heels and sends the blood coursing through her veins at warped speed.

Just like that, startling bursts appear out of the blue; a sun shower. It warms the air, makes it heavy with emotion, and refracts light from within every droplet that cascades around her, drenching her soul in a love _so real, so pure, so perfect_ , that she wants to dance in it for as long as she lives. Inevitably, it passes…drifts across the atmosphere, leaving rainbows in its wake with the promise of more to come…and she wonders…and she longs…and she waits for the next.

It's been one week since he came back to her, and the memories are still blossoming, with no end sign in sight.

At first, she didn't tell Stiles. She couldn't. It was awful enough that she forgot in the first place; she let the most important person in her life be taken from her. Admitting that she was left with blank spaces and that she didn't even know how many more existed seemed even worse.

When the memories appear, she gets a far-off look in her eyes. Stiles notices. Of course he does, and he reaches out, _like always_ …

…and Lydia withholds, like always. _"It's nothing, I'm fine,"_ she replies each time, before the question even forms in his mouth.

Her words are immediately followed by the sharp flicker of hurt in his eyes, which he so diligently tries to hide. Hurt…because he knows she is keeping something from him, holding him at a distance when there has already been too much of it, refusing to let him in when all he wants to do is help, to be there for her, to love her. Maybe even some of the hurt because he thinks she can't fully trust him.

On day four, she gave in; she couldn't be the one to cause him more pain. So, she took his hand when he reached out, let go of the fear, and the words fell from her lips…and it was surprisingly easy, and Stiles understood. Of course he did. He is Stiles, after all.

 _"How could anyone expect you to get back years of memories in one night?"_ he said. " _It's going to take time, Lydia. It's okay…you'll remember…and in the meantime, we can make new ones."_

Regardless of the fact that she felt unworthy to ask for it, Stiles held her – just like she wanted him to…because he knew it was what she needed. _Stiles always knows._ His lips pressed against her forehead, arms surrounded her, hands tangled into her hair, broad chest motionless against her. Being so close made her tingle all over; reminded her that Stiles is with her because he wants to be, because he loves her – _he really does_ , and he always has…and it eases the pain of forgetting and replaces it with something warm, substantial, solid – HIM.

As Lydia crosses the parking lot, another memory materializes…and today, she is not holding back. She walks over to Stiles and kisses him with every ounce of love in her possession. Despite the fact that he waited for her for years, and despite the fact that they have only been together for one week, he doesn't seem surprised at all by the affection. He is right there with her, passion matched for passion as he grips her waist, his fingers dipping into the curve of her spine as she presses up against him. He relaxes into her mouth, muffled moan vibrating against her tongue. He kisses her, and he kisses her…until she is dizzy and breathless, clinging for balance with one hand at the nape of his neck and the other gripping soft cotton plaid.

When their lips part, a new memory has been made and another is fully restored…leaving her smiling…and hoping…and waiting for more.


	2. Heaven's Skies

Love took me by the hand  
Love took me by surprise  
Love led me to you  
And love opened up my eyes  
And I was drifting away  
Like a drop in the ocean  
And now I realize that  
Nothing has been as beautiful  
As when I saw heaven's skies  
In your eyes  
-Drop in the Ocean by Michelle Branch

* * *

On her way across the parking lot to meet Stiles, Lydia walks past the line of school buses. A harsh blast of heat from the exhaust mixes with the smell of gasoline, invading her senses and sparking her memory.

 _She remembers the night at the Glen Capri…_

* * *

It was hours after midnight, and Lydia was seated on a grimy bus, parked in some poor excuse for a town called Fairvale – a desolate place, in the middle of the desert, with nothing to call its own but the likes of a sleazy motel, located directly off the highway. The establishment, ironically tagged with the name Glen Capri, was an atrocity of accommodations by any standard, not just Lydia's. It would have failed any customer service evaluation with flying colors, and what it lacked in comfort was only surpassed by the disturbingly dark humor assumed by its proprietors. Apparently, they took pride in the knowledge that their no-star motel ranked highest in California…in terms of one very specific, very troubling detail…

Since its opening, the Glen Capri has held the record for most guest suicides.

198 to date…and counting…

On the terrifying night that Lydia and her friends were unfortunate enough to end up stranded at the Glen Capri, that number had nearly increased to 201…or more…

Lydia remembers not being able to sleep. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, head still swimming with gruesome images of the Darach, throat still painfully raw from the scream it unleashed shortly before, body still trembling with aftershocks from the ordeal she had just experienced.

A persistent draft blew through the cavern of the bus, making her grateful for the weight of her denim jacket and the presence of her friends.

Allison was to her left, long legs sporadically shifting through restless sleep. One of her hands was clasped with Lydia's, the other shaped into a tight fist that was shoved into the pocket of her jacket. Lydia remembers the striking image of her beautiful best friend: glossy dark brown hair peeking out from underneath a black hoodie that was patterned with silver-grey arrows, square-shaped jawline locked in a resolved clench, pale pink lips and porcelain skin glowing in the eerie lunar light. She thought of Artemis, the huntress, goddess of the moon, and it seemed unsettlingly poignant. She remembers listening to Allison's steady and even breaths, and unsuccessfully trying to match her own to them.

Boyd and Isaac were slumped on opposite sides at the rear of the bus. Lydia couldn't see them, but she could hear them both snoring softly, passed out from exhaustion.

Scott was one row in front of her. His head-full of dampened waves was propped against the window, aggravated puffs of his exhales fogging the pane. Despite a long shower and a change of clothes, the faint scent of gasoline continued to waft from his direction.

As Lydia sat in the dim, replaying the events of the last few hours in her mind, it was impossible for her to ignore a series of what ifs. They assaulted her consciousness, determined to torment her, forbidding her any chance of respite. She remembers being carried adrift by a stream of unpleasant thoughts. Thoughts of what might have happened to Boyd, or Isaac, or Scott…of what could have happened to Stiles.

Stiles, who was set behind Scott, just across the aisle on Lydia's right. She remembers fighting the urge to look at him for at least twenty minutes, then finally giving in. Somehow, she knew he would be awake too. He was staring back at her, shadowed face, eyebrows raised in question as he ticked his head towards the door in silent communication. Lydia remembers nodding in agreement before gently releasing Allison's hand and gingerly placing it in her lap, being mindful not to wake her.

She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her clothes, palms roughly brushing over the fabric of her navy-blue floral dress, sending tiny particles of dust into the air. She watched them disperse for a second. Haphazardly they floated, illuminated by a beam of moonlight that streamed through the window of the bus, each of them swirling as wildly as the butterflies in her stomach.

Lydia remembers the sudden pressing need to connect with Stiles, to touch him, to make sure he was still with her – _alive and unharmed._ She distinctly recalls his hand, extended towards her as if he were aware of that need, and how she accepted it without a second thought. The long sleeves of her jacket briefly hindered them both. Stiles swept the thick fabric away with a swift flick of his fingers, his hand quickly finding hers and completely enveloping it, surrounding her cool skin with his warmth. She remembers drawing her first full breath since she saw Scott bleeding on the floor of the rest stop bathroom the day before; relief spreading outwards from the hand that was linked to Stiles.

As they walked quietly towards the front of the bus, Stiles glanced back at Scott. Lydia was sure he shut his eyes for an extended moment before tightening his grip on her hand and approaching the open door. She followed him down but misjudged the height of the last step from the ground. Unsteady from the night's trauma, her petite legs buckled underneath her.

She remembers starting to fall…and then abruptly coming to a stop. Two arms quickly slid under hers with a strength, a confidence, and an ease she hadn't expected.

"Whoa…I've got you," Stiles said…and he did.

She remembers the breath getting lodged in her throat and the feeling of his soft red sweatshirt grazing against her cheek as she whispered a thanks and straightened her stance.

Outside, he reclaimed her hand as they circled the bus in the darkness. Three complete turns made without exchanging a word. The only sounds – the occasional car speeding by, her heels clicking against the pavement, and the echoing call of a hawk in the distance.

Eventually, they veered back to the motel to get coffee from a rickety, decades-old vending machine. In silence, they held paper cups, filled with pitch-black liquid, purchased for the sole purpose of warming their hands. Lydia remembers the murky substance – bitter-smelling and thick enough to stick to the back of her sore throat, had she dared to consume any. She imagined it carving out another gash into her larynx, next to the one from the scream that broke free, only two hours before.

She remembers the brisk early morning air as they stood underneath a gradually lessening, slate-colored sky that was scattered with charcoal-grey clouds. Together, Lydia and Stiles sat on the gritty steps of the bus; coarse grooved steel digging into Lydia's bare thighs, Stiles playing some familiar rhythm with the rap of his thumb on his knee, both watching the mangled spheres of tumbleweed that were carried across the parking lot with the wind.

When Stiles turned towards Lydia, the weight of his regard slowly settled over her. It made her feel safe, as though his very awareness of her shielded her from harm. She remembers him hesitantly reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear…for the very first time, and how her heart skipped beats as his hand skimmed the rim of her ear.

"Lydia, I…" he began.

She looked over her shoulder, ready to speak, anxious to stop him from continuing. He put his index finger to her mouth, letting it linger at the center of her bottom lip, pad of his long digit still hot from the coffee that heated his hands.

"Please, let me try to get this out. You saved my life. You… _you saved Scott's life_ …and I can never thank you enough." He paused, letting his finger fall away from her lips, then put both of their cups aside. She remembers how he took her hand, and with it…another piece of her heart. "All I can say is that…I will never forget."

She remembers how intensely Stiles observed her – like he could see into her soul. Much to her surprise, she wanted to let him, even though it scared her to allow someone so close.

He lowered his voice to a whisper when he spoke the next time. The sincerity in his tone like the ocean on a clear day – so pure, and deep, and expansive that she had no doubt Stiles meant it when he said, "Lydia Martin, you are _something_... You're…incredible."

She remembers his lips, silky and slightly parted. She remembers his minty breath ghosting across her face, his lashes casting long shadows over angled cheekbones, his skin dotted with a pattern of moles that put the constellations to shame. Her heart was made vulnerable by his eyes, sparking gold in the moonlight. She remembers thinking she had just caught a glimpse of what heaven must be like…followed by the unrelenting need to look away…before she allowed herself to think he could be hers.

"I'm not," she answered, pursing her lips. "I just reacted. What _you_ did for Scott… _that_ was incredible. Stiles, you _chose_ to risk your life for him, you were able to get through to him…and it was one of the bravest things I've ever seen anyone do."

The words had slipped past her lips before she even considered withholding them. If she hadn't actually heard the small sound of her voice, she would scarcely believe she had said them at all.

Immediately averting her eyes, she noticed his arm – battered and bruised, scraped from wrist to elbow, marking where he fell to the ground beneath her. Her mind went blank at the realization that he was not unharmed. _She hurt him._ She wanted to protect him, and she hurt him.

Lydia can barely remember the apology that escaped her lips, only that it lacked the depth of emotion that she had been working so fervently to express.

"Does it hurt?" she managed to ask, fighting tears while she tentatively grazed her fingertips against his angry wounds.

She risked eye contact once more. She remembers the bewildered expression that crossed Stiles's face as he slung his arm over her shoulder and pulled her into him. "Yeah, a bit. But… _I'll live_ ," he reassured her with a quiet and forgiving laugh.

He kept his arm around her, and they stayed to watch the sunrise. The sky progressively lightening from slate, to shades of lavender, pink, and azure with the bright golden sun peeking out from the horizon. The desert air was still chilly, but Lydia felt warm and safe tucked into Stiles. When she dropped her head to his shoulder, he released a contented sigh and rested his cheek atop her temple. She thinks she felt the corner of his mouth turn up against her skin. She pictured Stiles flashing his perfect crooked smile…and it made her smile too.

They remained in their embrace for a while longer, then quietly returned to their places on the bus. As they reluctantly released each other's hands, Lydia had the sensation that something had shifted between them. There was a comfort and ease between them before, but somehow those quiet hours in the early morning had allowed those feelings to spread their wings.

She watched as Stiles folded his sweatshirt into a make-shift pillow, offering it to her first. When she declined with a hint of a smile, he placed it under his head and within minutes was sound asleep; head thrown back, lips parted, arms folded across his chest. Lydia remembers staring at his shoes and listening to his breaths until sleep finally claimed her too...her mind wandering towards thoughts of Stiles and the ever-intensifying tugging at her heart.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Stiles is standing before her. Lydia glides one hand around his neck and grabs hold of his shirt with the other, pulling him into a deep kiss. Without the slightest hint of surprise, he dives right in with her; tongue tickling the roof of her mouth, lips playfully reshaping around hers, strong arms looping around her body. He holds her tightly to his chest…tighter and tighter…until there is no space between them.

When they part, they are left entranced by each other; breathless, eyes glassy, hearts rushing.

He nudges her nose with his. "Not complaining here – _at all_ – but what was that for?" he asks, tone soft as an early summer breeze.

"It's a thank you."

"For…"

"Showing me what heaven looks like," she answers.

Stiles blinks at her a bit awestruck, question hanging at the tip of his tongue.

"I had another memory," she explains.

"What kind of memory?"

She rests her head on his chest. "One that started out pretty frightening, but ended up being really beautiful," she sighs.

He doesn't press further because he knows sometimes, it's all just too much for her…and he understands.

Lydia lifts her head and kisses him once more, light and deliberate, then lingering at the corner of his mouth as she speaks. "I'll tell you about it later. I promise."

"Okay," he nods, gently rubbing her back.

"Want to drive somewhere and make out for a while?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows, gorgeous lopsided grin forming on his lips. "Yes, definitely – _SO_ much," he says eagerly. He opens the door of the Jeep for Lydia, waits for her to climb in, and touches her cheek while she buckles her seat belt. "There's something different about you today…" he notes, peering thoughtfully into her eyes.

Of course he would notice. _Stiles notices everything._

"Good different?" she inquires.

"Definitely good. You seem more…yourself. I can feel it...right here," he continues, picking up her hand and placing it over his heart. "Can you?"

"Yeah. Ever since you came home, I feel different…and today, I don't know… I mean, it's the last day of high school but…it doesn't feel like an end. It's more like…"

He completes her thought. "The start of something?"

"Exactly."

"Lydia..."

She gazes at Stiles, blush rising in her cheeks as she waits for him to continue.

"I love you," he tells her. Like it's the easiest, most natural thing in the world for him to say.

She smiles brightly, eyes misting ever so slightly, and her heart so full that she can't wait to say it back. "I love you too." And it feels like the easiest, most natural thing in the world to admit. Because she does. She loves him – _so much._


	3. You and Me

If I chase  
your echoes  
down the hallways  
long enough,  
if I just  
get ahold of them  
once,  
just once,  
will it bring you  
back  
to me  
again?  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

It's shortly after eight p.m. on an exceptionally warm evening in Beacon Hills. Having rained for most of the day, the air is heavy with lingering humidity. The sky is dark and still covered with clouds, no sign of the moon or stars anywhere in sight.

Lydia is driving to meet Stiles at his house. She is dressed in a silky taupe-colored tank top, burgundy shorts, and comfy ballet flats. Her long hair is bundled into a top knot, wispy tendrils of strawberry-blonde whipping across her cheekbones as a breeze sneaks in from the partially opened window. Restlessly, she flicks on the car's wipers to erase the mist that has been collecting on the windshield. The first few passes only smudge the droplets of moisture, temporarily distorting her view. She lets her car decelerate until the glass finally clears, then picks up speed…just in time for a traffic light to delay her when it changes to red.

She huffs out a frustrated sigh and slows to a stop at the intersection of two roads, one of which will lead her to Stiles. Pursing her lips and tapping her freshly manicured fingernails on the steering wheel, she feels herself quickly losing patience. She has hit every light en route to her destination. _Every. Single. One._

To make matters worse, she hasn't seen Stiles all day. Her desire to be with him has been nudging at her heart since she woke in the morning, and she just wants to get to him already.

Lydia waits for the signal to change, rubbing her temples and forcing herself to take long slow breaths to relax her nerves. She doesn't want this mood to follow her for the rest of the night. When a flash of green from above permits her to advance, she eases her foot off the break and presses down on the gas pedal with a smile, relieved to finally be moving again.

As her car rolls along the quiet street, she listens to the repetitive sound of her tires trundling over the dampened tarmac. Double yellow lines and bottomless black pavement are almost hypnotizing as they glisten in the dim amber glow of the street lamps. By the time Lydia rounds the last curve on Kendall Street, nearing Woodbine Lane, her mind starts to wander towards thoughts of Stiles.

Suddenly, two bright beams from the headlights of an oncoming car flash before her eyes…

 _and she remembers the day of the outbreak…_

* * *

Lydia had been at the lake house while her friends were taking the PSATs. She remembers that she spent the entire day trying to figure out something, _anything_ that would teach her how to focus her abilities...before it was too late. She hoped that if she could just understand what Meredith had been trying to tell her, then maybe she would be able to _save someone_ – instead of finding another dead body.

But all Lydia ended up with were more questions and an awful feeling of dread. She remembers the fear that consumed her when she knew someone was going to die. Someone at the high school. _Someone she cared about._

That evening, Lydia drove through darkness, her royal blue compact car seeming to lag over every mile she traveled, headlights from opposing traffic blazing in her eyes around every bend in the road.

When she arrived at the school, the grounds were swarming with law enforcement officers, medical personnel, and officials from the CDC – complete with a hazmat team. Beyond them, a police blockade contained a horde of worried parents and school staff members. Lydia parked in the first available space in the lot and darted through the crowd. After several unbearable minutes spent working to persuade her way into the building, she found Sheriff Stilinski, who helped her get inside.

Once she reached the entrance and tore open the heavy steel doors, she found that the lobby was flooded with even more people. Eyes anxiously scanning the area, she first spotted her mother. But the relief Lydia felt as they embraced was short-lived because she also learned that Scott and Kira were unaccounted for, and worst of all... _Stiles_ was nowhere in sight.

She remembers trying to convince herself that if something had happened to him – _if he was gone_ – then she would feel it, but her body was too racked with emotion to listen to rational thought. She wouldn't be able to rest until she saw, with her own two eyes, that Stiles was okay. So, Lydia did the only thing that made sense to her at that point. The thing she always did when she felt lost and afraid.

She followed the tugging sensation in her chest.

She brushed past everyone who stood in her way, everyone who kept her from the direction her heart was pleading with her to go...and it led her to the hallway outside the boys' locker rooms.

Lydia remembers the moment she saw Stiles. She couldn't breathe. He was standing at the end of the poorly lit corridor, head down, motionless as a statue. There were only two other people with him. Scott was on his right, leaning close with his hand on his best friend's back. Kira was on Stiles's left, her elbow linked to his and her head nodding as she spoke quietly.

As soon as Lydia took a single step forward, Stiles lifted his head. She remembers the way the hallway seemed to narrow and lengthen, making the space between them appear desperately vast. Despite the expansive gap between them, their eyes found each other; gazes locking from across what seemed like miles of distance. She remembers the pressing need to be close to Stiles, so she bolted towards him without hesitation, heels of her boots clicking loudly against the vinyl floors, her long ponytail, white floral dress, and chunky green cardigan billowing behind her as she ran.

She came to a halt in front of him. Stiles abruptly shifted, ducking his head and turning away from her in an attempt to conceal his face, but she stepped closer, arms outstretched, as she gingerly cupped his cheeks in her hands. Lydia remembers that his skin felt unfamiliar underneath her fingertips and palms. Rather than smooth and warm, it was tacky and cool as though he had broken out into a sweat.

"Stiles, look at me," she urged him.

Eyes tightly shut, he shook his head.

"Stiles, please." She waited, but he still wouldn't open his eyes or turn to face her, so she coaxed further, "Come on... _please._ I need you to look at me."

When he reluctantly complied, the fluorescent lights overhead revealed what he was so purposefully trying to hide from her.

She remembers his beautiful face – splattered with blood.

The sight made her heart stop. It made her head spin and siphoned all of the air from her lungs, forcing her to release an exhale in an emotional gasp. She let her hands drop to his shoulders, watching in agony as Stiles closed his eyes once more, head turning away has if he were ashamed.

"My dad... My dad… He can't see me like this," he stuttered.

"He won't. I'll help you." She tried to sound calm for him, but her voice cracked sharply over her words.

Then she felt a hand on her forearm. "It's okay. I'll get him cleaned up," Scott told her, sounding a bit raspy and weak.

She kept her eyes on Stiles. "I can do it," she answered Scott defensively.

"Lydia, really, you don't have to—"

" _I know that_ ," she interrupted him with a strength she hadn't expected.

Immediately regretting the harshness in her tone, she took a breath, then glanced at her friend with an apologetic wince. "Scott, I'm fine. You and Kira need to take care of each other. Let me take care of Stiles. It should be me," she insisted.

She remembers the way Stiles's eyes swiftly met hers, his expression conveying not just surprise but also relief...and something _more._..

That was all the assurance Lydia needed. There was no way she was leaving him. Not when he looked at her like that – like she was his salvation, like she could take his pain away, like he needed her as much as she needed him.

"Scott, she's right," she heard Kira say.

Lydia didn't listen for Scott's response. All she could focus on was Stiles. Stiles, who nearly died… _nearly died_ without knowing how much she loves him.

When she reached for his hands, he hid them behind his back.

"What's wrong?" she asked gently.

He bit his lip, then showed her his hands.

Lydia was sickened to see that they were also covered with dried blood, but she actively worked to hide her dismay. "Okay... It's alright. Come with me," she told him, keeping her voice as soft as possible while sliding one arm inside his sweatshirt and around his waist.

She looked at Scott and Kira, who were locked in a tight hug, then silently thanked them both before attentively guiding Stiles into the locker room.

Pushing past the doors, she randomly flicked a few light switches, pleasantly surprised that some of them brightened the area where the sinks were located. The rest of the locker room remained untouched. Lydia remembers the way Stiles trembled against her, his arm now slung over her shoulder, the weight of his body leaning into hers as they shuffled across the space. Mindful not to loosen her grip on him, she quickly snatched a pile of fresh towels from a nearby shelf and continued forward.

When they reached the sinks that lined the adjacent wall, Lydia set the towels aside, taking one from the top to dampen it under warm water. She felt Stiles move away from her. His two quivering hands released the faucet in front of him, then clutched the edge of the porcelain as the rhythm of his inhales took on a rapid shallow pace.

"Stiles?"

His right eye began to involuntarily twitch as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

"Lydia, I think I'm gonna—" was all he could manage to say before he doubled over and began heaving into the sink.

She set her hand at the middle of his back, aching to do something more than watch as his body convulsed with tremors, choking and gagging on the meager contents of his stomach.

When it was over, Stiles swayed on unbalanced legs and slowly slid to the floor, hands still gripping the rim of the sink. Lydia knelt next to him; dusty floor cold on her bare legs. Laying her palms over his bloodied knuckles, she gently pried his fingers from the sink, then took hold of his wrists and draped his arms around her neck. She felt Stiles's body go limp, so she guided him to the wall for support. Exhausted, he let his head fall back against the tiles and dropped his arms in his lap.

When she was able to observe him more closely, Lydia could see that all of the color had drained from his face, contrasting dramatically with the violently painted, brownish-red splotches that were splayed across his skin. She remembers that her stomach sank to an even lower level when she noticed the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, blending with beads of sweat that covered his face and neck, smearing tracks across his skin as they mixed with dried blood.

"It's okay," she soothed, gripping his shoulders and rubbing circles into his muscles with her thumbs. "It's okay. Let's just sit for a minute."

He closed his eyes, slow trickle of wetness crawling out from between his lashes. The room went silent, save for the stippled breaths he issued until gradually, they evened out.

When he reopened his eyes, looking at her intently, Lydia understood that it was okay for her to begin her work. She set her right hand at the nape of his neck and took the towel with her left, dabbing first at the corners of his frown, then across his lips. As she unsuccessfully tried not to admire the beautiful shape of his mouth, his countenance changed; pout tightening into a line, gaze shifting downwards, and brows pinching together.

Lowering her head to make eye contact, she reassured him, "Stiles, come on… It's you and me. Alright? You don't have to be embarrassed _for anything._ Ever."

He held her stare, and with glossy eyes he nodded in agreement, mouth briefly quirking up on one side.

Lydia resumed with deliberation and precision while his long fingers nervously tapped against the fabric of his pants. She took her time, gently erasing every trace of blood from his hairline, temples, and eyebrows...moving along to his nose and cheekbones...then to his jawline and chin. All the while, she massaged the base of his skull with her right hand. She remembers the feeling of his silky hair, and the pain of knowing it had been weeks since the last time she had touched him like this. Turning her attention to his neck, she encouraged Stiles to tilt his head, allowing her easier access to the tender areas of his throat.

"I've got..." His eyelids drooped shut, and he swallowed with difficulty. "I've got an awful taste in my mouth."

She set the towel down, reached into the pocket of her cardigan, and pulled out a spearmint drop – the ones she always keeps in constant supply because she knows Stiles likes them. She quickly tore off the wrapper, trying not to think about the fact that a few months ago he would have simply dipped his fingers into her pocket, left eyebrow arched as he sought out and found a mint, then winked or flashed a crooked smile at her...probably even kissed her cheek before she had the chance to feign protest.

"Here..." Lydia quietly nudged him as she brought the candy to his mouth, "this will help."

Stiles's lips parted slightly. As he took the mint, she felt his tongue on her fingertips and heard the candy click against his teeth when he moved it to his cheek. She remembers the way his eyes drifted open and the way they searched for hers as he mouthed a grateful _thank you_.

She gave him a half-smile before returning to her task.

When every visible speck of blood had vanished, Lydia rose to her knees to moisten a clean towel, then carefully passed over every inch of his face and neck with the soft cloth. She dried his skin with another, then took his face in her hands, lightly caressing his pale cheeks with her thumbs and longing to see them flush to pink for her...like they used to.

"Do you think you can stand now?"

"Yeah."

She got up from the floor and offered her help.

"My hands are…" he started, referring to the stains.

"Don't worry about that. Come on."

He let her pull him up, momentum taking him forward until their bodies bumped together.

"Sorry," he whispered into the crown of her head, his breath coasting over her scalp and sending tingles down her spine.

She shook her head, feeling his lips graze her skin, resisting the urge to tilt her face up and kiss him. He was so close, and even through the lingering metallic scent of blood, he still smelled like Stiles – crisp, and clean, and comforting. Lydia remembers wanting to dive into him, to hug him tightly and say sweet things to him, to tell him that he has her heart in a permanent lock and that she wants him to keep it. But she couldn't do that. Not then.

Instead, she plugged the drain and filled the sink. She submerged both of his hands in the hot water, massaging them with soap suds until they were pure once again. After she dried his hands, Stiles let out a shaky exhale and reached for her shoulders.

Remembering that his clothes were tarnished with blood as well, she shifted her eyes to him. "You have spare clothes in your locker… Don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Good, cause you're going to want to change out of these," she said, tugging on the front of his shirt.

"Right."

"Which one is yours?" she asked, ticking her head towards the right.

Head down and shoulders slumped, Stiles took her hand and led her through the maze of lockers. Without the glare of fluorescent lights, that portion of the room shone only with the ghostly silver light of the moon. He stopped at the door numbered 628 and fiddled with the lock a few times before popping it open.

Lydia stepped closer. "Here, take this off," she told him, pushing his green and black sweatshirt behind his shoulders. She felt goosebumps forming on his arms and the heat of his skin warming her cool fingertips as she dragged the hoodie down his arms.

It took two attempts to get her next statement past her trembling lips because her throat was constricting so tightly.

"There's blood on your tee shirt too," she finally croaked out, setting his sweatshirt on the bench beside them.

"Oh," he said, looking down.

She remembers the rush of nerves that affected the tenor of her voice. "Do you want me to turn around?" she asked weakly.

"If you want. I mean...if you're not comfortable, if…"

"No, its's fine. I'm fine."

They both grasped for the hem of his shirt, hands brushing against each other, then stilling.

"I should let you do that," she corrected, silently scolding herself for her inability to keep her hands to herself.

He reached back, pulling the formerly white cotton shirt over his head by its collar, and everything slowed down...

She remembers watching his lean muscles stretch and contract as he moved, the elegant lines of his body gradually being revealed to her like the unveiling of a new sculpture in a gallery. She blinked with awe realizing that for the first time, she was alone with Stiles...in near darkness…while he was only half-dressed. It was far from how she imagined it could happen.

Dropping the tee on the bench, next to his sweatshirt, he timidly averted his eyes to one side, but Lydia was unable to look away from his body. His body that could have been left cold and lifeless. His body that houses his perfect heart – the heart that is linked to hers, the heart that she loves above all others.

Mesmerized, her eyes wandered over every inch of him. The surface of his skin practically glowed in dispersed lunar light. Lydia remembers the sprinkling of moles that adorned his shoulders and torso. It never even occurred to her to stop when her hands connected with his chest; smooth, and warm, and solid. She was touching Stiles. She needed to. And with nothing separating her fingertips from his skin...it felt better than she ever dreamed it could feel. Her left hand curled around his shoulder and her right settled loosely over his heart. When she felt him shudder under the delicate contact, she was immediately aware of the line she had crossed.

But before she could recoil, his hand covered hers, pressing it nearer until she could feel his erratic heartbeat below her palm.

In response, her eyes began to sting with emotion. _Stiles was alive._ _He was still with her…_ and as long as that were the case, maybe there was still hope. Maybe there was a chance for them to be together someday.

The bubble that had spontaneously formed around them nearly burst when his voice, shadowed by a faint quiver, said, "We can't get rid of those clothes. They're evidence."

She nodded in understanding, eyes fixated on his bare skin, mind focused on the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand.

After an extended silence, he spoke. "I thought you were at the lake house."

"I was, but then…I knew I _had_ to come here. There were so many…so many that I didn't know it was you too. But I should have," she rambled.

"Why?"

"Because I haven't felt anything this strongly since…since…Allison."

It took every shred of her willpower to keep from breaking down at the thought of her best friend – the girl that she desperately wanted to, _but didn't,_ save. It was too much. She couldn't think about it just then. Not when she was faced with the reality that the boy she loved – the one who nuzzled his way into her heart with his expressive gold-flecked eyes, shy smile, brilliant mind, and sarcastic tendencies – not when _he_ was nearly taken from her too.

"Stiles," Lydia breathed, innocently rubbing her hand over his heart in search of more contact.

He said not a word, simply tucked his finger under her chin and tilted her head up. His eyes were brimming, and her own tears effortlessly slipped from the corners of her eyes while her lips trembled.

"Stiles," she repeated.

Slowly, they encircled each other. Stiles wrapped his arms around her, and Lydia melted into him. She remembers the feeling of his bare shoulder connecting with her cheek; heat of him lessening the chill from her bones and freeing a few more words from her lips.

"Stiles, how many times is something like this going to happen? What would I have... I can't take anymore. I can't."

He hunched down slightly, the side of his face right next to hers, more of his warmth seeping into her soul. "Lyds, it's alright. I'm here."

In silence, they held onto each other. Stiles drew Lydia closer, and she relished in the sensation of him surrounding her so perfectly. His embrace made her lose all sense of time, all care for it too. She remembers wishing they could disappear. _Just the two of them. Together._

Eventually, a sharp buzzing sound startled her.

"Sorry," Stiles apologized, squeezing her one more time before letting go so he could retrieve his phone. "It's my dad," he explained. "I need to see him."

"I know."

As Stiles returned the device to his pocket, Lydia retrieved a clean shirt from his locker. After helping him into it, she looked into his eyes once more. She remembers how beautiful they were...glinting even in near darkness. She remembers his expression – filled with such tenderness that she believed he might still love her too.

She smoothed the front of his tee shirt with her hands before touching his cheek. "Stiles, I'm so… I'm…"

"It's okay. I know," he assured her, leaning into her touch. "So am I."

When Lydia let her hand slide away from his face and began to step away, he caught her by the wrist and looped his fingers around it. Then, he secured his locker and gathered his old clothes, and the two walked quietly in the direction of the exit.

The doors came into view, and Stiles hesitated. She remembers the moonlight drawing his features out from the darkness, how soft beams seemed to radiate _from him_ rather than from the distant satellite that orbits Earth. She remembers how he suddenly turned to her, pulling her close and resting his forehead against hers.

"Thank you, Lydia," he said, voice regaining its strength.

And she smiled…because she knew he still cared.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia's car is idling at the side of the road. Overcome by memory and emotion, she cries into her hands until the sound of her phone buzzing snaps her back to the present. She searches through her purse and finds that she already has a voicemail and three text messages from Stiles.

 _Everything OK? You said you'd be here like 20 min ago…_

 _Make that 25. Where are you?_

 _Alright I'm officially worried... Coming to look for you... NOW_

Lydia doesn't waste time texting a reply. She tosses her phone on the passenger's seat, eases away from the curb, and anxiously drives the last two blocks to the Stiles's house.

When she arrives, he is already at the Jeep, keys in one hand, door handle clutched in the other. As soon as she parks in front of the house, he rushes over, opening the driver's side door as she cuts the engine.

"Lydia, I was so worried! What the hell happened? You're never late."

She unbuckles her seat belt and swings her legs out of the car, pushing against the steering wheel as she straightens to a standing position in front of a clearly distressed Stiles.

Bypassing his outstretched hands, she throws her arms around his neck. "Stiles. Stiles. Stiles," she repeats, rising to the tips of her toes and kissing every inch of his face – his cheeks, his eyelids and lashes, his brows, his nose, jaw, and chin, then finally his lips as he pants into her mouth.

Hands gripping her waist, he maneuvers her body away from the car and kicks the door shut behind them. "What is it? Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry," she apologizes, still peppering kisses anywhere and everywhere she can make contact.

He pulls her tightly to him. "I know. It's okay. Tell me what happened."

"I was driving here…and I had a memory, so I had to pull over for a while."

He arches back to look at her. "You had a memory…and you've been crying?"

"Uh-huh."

"Come here," he says, keeping her in his arms and encouraging her onto the sidewalk. "What did you remember?"

Clinging to his grey henley, Lydia draws Stiles even closer. "The day of the outbreak…when you almost…and we were in the locker room…" She buries her head in his chest, letting the last of her tears escape unhindered.

"Aww, Lyds... I've got you. It's alright."

Her stomach swirls as his hands make contact with the small of her back. His warm rough digits more soothing to her skin than the cool satiny fabric of her tank top.

"It was so vivid – every detail. I felt all of the same things, all over again. I wanted to tell you then... Stiles, did you know?"

"Know what?"

"Did you know I loved you?"

His hands come up to take hold of her face, and he gazes into her eyes in a way that somehow uncovers the moon and the stars, even from behind a dense layer of clouds. He replaces the ephemeral darkness of night with something more powerful, something enduring...

"I hoped," he tells her.

"Even…"

" _Always,_ Lydia." He bends down to kiss her, and he tastes like cherry soda and Stiles.

She presses closer, wanting to connect with every part of him. Her heart bangs wildly against her sternum, wordlessly chanting his name within the chambers of her rib cage. _Stiles. Stiles. Stiles._

He parts from her lips to finish his statement. "That night…when I thought I was going to… It was _you_ I was thinking of. It's always you, Lydia."

"Why didn't we just... We should have—"

"Shh... Try not to think about that. It doesn't matter anymore. It's you and me now. We're together...and that's how we are going to stay. Okay?"

"Yes."

"God, you're trembling."

"I can't help it when you hold me like this."

He kisses her again, and when he stops, Lydia doesn't even bother to stifle a disappointed moan. It hangs in the stillness of the night air, but she is desperate for more and she wants Stiles to know it. She never wants him to question her feelings for him. _Never again._

He acknowledges her unreserved display of need with a familiar crooked grin. "Come on... We should go in. The mosquitoes love you nearly as much as I do, and I don't want you getting eaten alive out here."

She releases his shirt and winds her arms around his neck. "Stiles... Will you?" she asks, looking at him through her lashes.

He arches his eyebrow, then slides his hands down her body, lifting her up so she can wrap her legs around his waist.

"Better?" he asks, softly nudging her nose with his.

"Much," she replies with a smile.

Then he gives her a chaste kiss and carries her inside the house.

As Stiles approaches the living room, Lydia speaks up. "Is it okay if we don't watch a movie right now?"

"Sure. You wanna talk for a while?"

Tightening her legs around him, Lydia can hear the desire in her own voice when she speaks to him in a breathy whisper. "Later. Right now…all I want is you."

"I missed you today," he answers with a pensive pout, bouncing her in his arms to bring her higher against his chest.

She touches her forehead to his and weaves her fingers into his hair. "I missed you too."

He turns them around and heads for the open doorway of his bedroom. Then, he steps across the threshold and closes the door behind them. Bracing Lydia against the grain, he explores her mouth with his, smiling as she parts her lips for him.

Within seconds, one of his hands leaves her back, and when she hears the lock click…her entire body clenches with anticipation because she knows the night is about to get infinitely better.

Being with Stiles makes everything better.


	4. The Thing with Feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -  
That perches in the soul -  
And sings the tune without the words -  
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -  
And sore must be the storm -  
That could abash the little Bird  
That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land -  
And on the strangest Sea -  
Yet - never - in Extremity,  
It asked a crumb - of me.  
-Emily Dickinson

* * *

Lydia and Stiles are parked at Lookout Point. Earlier, they draped a blanket over the hood of the Jeep and climbed atop to talk and share their dinner. Now, they are lying next to each other, resting their backs on the windshield as they watch the sunset.

Together they marvel at the breathtaking scene that unfolds before them. In the distance, flames of orange lick at clear blue until the sky is ablaze with glowing light that tints everything it touches to gold. The array of vibrant colors contrasts sharply with the muted silhouette of shadowy landscape. With each second, the horizon becomes more distinct, a line of delineation between the past and the present.

Stiles slides his hand into Lydia's, and she laces their fingers together. When she turns to look at him, his gaze is already fixed on her, and she can't help but admire how beautiful he is. His hair is slightly longer than usual, and it's starting to curl into gentle waves in all the right places. It's soft and shiny, perhaps unfairly so, considering he never even bothers to use conditioner. But it's impossible for Lydia to begrudge him that, and truth be told – she loves running her fingers through it. Nearly every chance she gets, her hands end up tangled within his dark brown locks; brushing back the longer strands that often stick to his forehead, gliding through the ones that tickle the rims of his ears, and weaving into the roots of others as she massages the nape of his neck. Stiles certainly doesn't seem to mind the contact either. When Lydia has her hands in his hair, he always seems to lean a little bit closer, kiss a little bit deeper, sigh a little bit longer...and it's all the encouragement she needs to continue.

Keeping his eyes on her, Stiles stretches out his left arm, then tucks it behind his head. Lydia watches his bicep flex and notices how the sleeve of his red tee shirt tightens over it. She gets a peek at his lower abdomen too, which draws her attention to another change. Over the last few days, they have been spending much of their time outdoors, and he is developing the subtlest hint of a tan. As her eyes wander over the sun-kissed surface of his skin, Lydia feels a sudden pang of envy. For a moment, she resents the Sun for her ability to connect with Stiles in this way – to touch him so intimately, to leave her mark on him. But then she recalls the incredible satisfaction of having his naked body pressed against hers, taut muscle and warm skin gliding over hers – returning touch for touch, and Lydia quickly realizes that it is Sól who should be envious of her.

With a hint of a smile, she continues to regard Stiles in silent adoration. While his hair and the tone of his skin may have altered in understated ways, happily, most of him also remains the same: expressive brows, long thick lashes, upturned nose, distinctive pattern of moles, and perfect lips – all of which she daydreams about on a regular basis.

And then, there are his eyes. His glorious eyes that somehow, in any exposure of light, shine even more brilliantly than the sun. Right now, they are the color of honey; liquid soft, and golden-hued...and radiating love for her. Lydia gets lost inside their limitless depths and her smile grows.

Stiles's expression shifts under the weight of her stare. He seems aware of the fact that she is admiring him, and his cheeks start to flush. Not a trace of conceit anywhere to be found, his grin is somewhere between flattered and timid when he brings their linked digits to his lips and affectionately plants a kiss above her knuckles.

Seeing Stiles so relaxed and at peace is a remarkable sight to behold. It's something that Lydia has caught tiny glimpses of, from the time they were children, but which...up until recently, never lingered for more than a few minutes. Yet lately, those infrequent glimpses have become numerous extended pauses – lasting moments that carry from one hour to the following, from one day to the next – especially during the last week...especially since she told him she loves him...

It happened four nights after he came home to her, the same night she explained that she was still remembering him...and he understood.

Sheltered by the cover of an onyx sky that shone brightly with stars, parked in this very spot, they were huddled in the back of the Jeep. Lydia wore a dress – one that she knew Stiles liked. The pale green one, printed with white camellia flowers. The dress that he said brought out the color of her eyes...even when they were huddled in a dark place. Her long hair was woven into a braid that cascaded over her right shoulder. Her feet were bare, sandals abandoned on the front seat hours before. She sat next to Stiles, her legs comfortably draped across his lap, worn-in fabric of his grey jeans beneath her thighs. Both of his arms enveloped her, one curled around her shoulders, the other drawn over her body, the heaviness of his hand imprinting on her hip.

With her eyes, she gazed into his, and Stiles looked back with unwavering devotion. With her head resting on his chest and the crisp navy-blue cotton of his tee shirt against her ear, she listened to the rhythm of his steady heartbeat – a sound more beautiful than any melody she has ever heard. With her lungs, she inhaled deeply, and his scent, that she had ached to breathe in for three long months, filled her with serenity. With her hands, she traced the veins in his arms, fingers repeatedly gravitating towards the pulse in his wrist. She loved those veins. They were precious to her – a lifeline between two souls. For years, they carried unspoken love throughout his body, keeping it safe and protected, until he could openly share that love with her.

The night was warm and so was Stiles...as per usual. Lydia could feel the blush rising in her cheeks and her dress sticking to her spine, but she didn't care. She knew, without the smallest inkling of doubt, that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. After months of separation, Stiles was with her and she was with him. Nothing else mattered.

Softly...softly...he spoke to her. Told her that thoughts of her kept him awake and aware when he was held in limbo in a desolate place. Told her that she made him want to fight his way back to her and staved off the emptiness that threatened to steal his soul. Told her that every minute they were apart, he longed to look at her, ached to hold her, and couldn't breathe properly without her. Told her that he often pictured her eyes and her lips – emissaries of secret glances and smiles that she only ever offered to him – and it brightened the darkness, giving him hope. Told her it was her voice that cut through the noiseless vacuum. _Her voice_ that emboldened and guided him home.

He was calm and still – more still than she had ever felt, and he unraveled the tangled web of tension within her, setting free a caged butterfly with each declaration.

Then they kissed, and they hugged, and they cried a little too.

Even through tears, Lydia was happier than she had ever been. Happy and _so sure_ that with Stiles in her life, anything and everything was possible. Her heart was pounding at a furious pace, beating in her chest like the wings of a fledgling about to take flight. But somehow, she knew she had nothing to fear. She took a breath. Her eyes locked with his.

And then it happened...

Her entire body shook with emotion when her fingertips grazed his cheek and the words passed her lips...

 _Stiles, I love you. I love you with all my heart._

This time, it was Stiles who didn't say it back...because _he didn't have to._ When his lips landed on hers, Lydia felt those three words with a strength that dispelled every thought from her mind – every thought except _Stiles...Stiles...Stiles...Love...Love...Love._

Together they remained, in the cozy cabin of the Jeep, until the longing they had battled for three months plus four days...and far longer than that really...became too much to bear.

Stiles drove Lydia to his house in the darkest hour of the night, but it felt like pure daylight was raining down on their shoulders as they walked to the porch. Tipsy with lovestruck desire, the pair attempted to slip quietly past a notoriously creaky screen door with little success. Hand in hand, they carefully tiptoed over aged floorboards that seemed determined to announce their arrival. Silently giggling, they entered Stiles's bedroom, exhaling a sigh of relief when the wooden door graciously closed and locked behind them with little more than a muffled click.

In the familiar comfort of his room, they connected. Hearts seeking hearts, they held each other close, synced beats thumping excitedly against each other's ribs. Lips seeking lips, they kissed, waning and waxing between tenacious hunger and deliberate tenderness. Skin seeking skin, they slowly undressed and tumbled into bed, saturated in the warmth of their passionate embrace.

That night, with Stiles, Lydia made love for the first time in her life. That night, he took her heart places she never dreamed it could go... In his eyes, she saw entire galaxies of stars. In his hands, she climbed the highest peaks, free from uncertainty. In his smile she reclaimed lost innocence. That night, Stiles showed Lydia the limitless bounds of his love in countless ways and in depths she had ached to explore. Love was the motivation behind every move he made, from the careful way he unzipped her dress...to the exquisite ways he kissed and caressed her...to the protective way he wrapped his body around hers before they drifted to sleep. He carried those wordless expressions of love into the following dawn – from the way he gently woke her...to the way he made her breakfast while she showered...and he has continued to show her, every day since.

When Lydia eventually cajoles herself out of her daydream, Stiles is stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

"Whatcha thinking about?" he asks.

"You. Us...together."

He smiles and tugs on her hand before releasing it and opening his arms to invite her nearer. She wriggles closer and closer, until her head is cradled inside that perfect nook between his neck and shoulder. The one that feels like it was carved out just for her. The one that makes her feel at home no matter where she is. She hooks her leg over his and presses her palm to his stomach while his lips tap against the apple of her cheek three times and his eyelashes flutter across her left temple.

All around them, the trees seem to grow taller as the shadows they cast lengthen under the influence of the sun. Below them, Beacon Hills fades into diminishing light. Above them, a raven calls out to break the silence, its wings flapping swiftly as it pushes off the branch of a large oak tree and leaps into flight. Moments later, a single black feather swirls through the air. Lydia observes its path. It travels with the wind, iridescent sheen glinting in the last rays of the sun, falling slowly in a random spiraling pattern before gravity pulls it into Lydia's orbit. She reaches out to catch it, and she remembers…

 _She remembers the day the windows at school came crashing down around her...and Stiles was there..._

* * *

Lydia was kneeling on the floor of the English Lit classroom, her body shaking with tremors. She cautiously peered over the surface of her desk, first blinking in shock, then scanning the space with wide eyes. It was a chaotic sight – books, papers, and fragments of glass scattered all around, traumatized classmates fearfully emerging from their hiding places, ominous rain of black feathers still floating through the atmosphere.

She remembers a hand between her shoulder blades – gentle pressure, hint of warmth...the kind you want to lean into from the moment you feel it... _Stiles._

He was standing next to her, hovering like he does – protective, not possessive. There is a difference, and Lydia had only recently become aware of that distinction... _because of Stiles._

Her fingers gripped the front of her desk as she timidly rose from the floor on wobbly legs. His hand hadn't moved. Lydia remembers pressing into the contact...just a half of a step back...and just for a few seconds...before she self-corrected with a full step forward.

"You okay?" Lydia heard Stiles say over the ringing in her ears.

"Mm-hm..." she nodded with pursed lips as she smoothed her hands over her blue floral dress. "You?" she asked, turning her head to quickly pass her eyes over him.

"Yeah," he replied breathlessly.

She hesitated for a second, then took another step away. Stiles's hand left her...and just like that, the warmth was gone. She remembers thinking she made a mistake, wishing she hadn't moved away. But it was too late.

Lydia shut her eyes and crossed her arms over her mid-section, trying to retain her own rapidly declining body heat. It didn't work, so she exhaled a frustrated sigh and opened her eyes. When she glanced over her shoulder again, she saw that Stiles had joined the rest of her classmates in attempting to restore the room to order. Taking his lead, she repositioned her desk, returning it to its proper place. As she reached for her nearby books and pen, Lydia's eyes searched for and found Allison, who was sweeping away a few feathers from the new chambray shirt she was wearing.

 _Are you okay?_ Allison mouthed, her eyebrows cinched with concern.

Lydia offered her best friend a tight smile. Allison had enough on her mind. She didn't need to be worried about Lydia too. _Are you?_ she silently responded.

Allison nodded once firmly and gave Lydia a look that said: _We'll talk later._

Lydia knew _that look_ all too well. Ones like it were exchanged far too often in a place like Beacon Hills.

Only a short time ago, they had been chatting in the hallway. Now, barely ten minutes into what was supposed to be an uneventful first day of school, she and Allison were aimlessly trying to reassemble the illusion of normality they had been grasping for all morning. But that fragile façade shattered along with the classroom windows...and it was going to be a lot more difficult to repair.

 _It could have been worse,_ she told herself. Allison and Stiles weren't hurt. Everyone else seemed to be alright, minus a few cuts and bruises. And other than the fact that Lydia's own heart was determined to test the strength of her rib cage, she had also made it through the fray – unharmed... _because of Stiles._

Stiles who selflessly covered her with his own body without a moment's hesitation. He put himself at risk to protect her, held onto her until the threat had passed, and immediately sought to comfort her afterwards...and then, she stepped away from him. She remembers being thoroughly annoyed with herself because she couldn't think of a single legitimate reason to explain why she had done that.

A sharp twinge of regret jabbed at her gut. She recalls the sudden irrepressible urge to know where Stiles was and what he was doing. Her eyes lifted from the stack of books that she held clutched to her chest. He was all the way at the front of the room. She remembers the chill that was spreading throughout her body and the moment she made the connection that the further Stiles was from her, the colder and more hopeless she felt.

As Lydia reset her belongings on her desk, she could feel the shame and remorse budding in her stomach. They were growing larger and larger with each passing second, intricate network of roots burrowing deeper and deeper inside. She couldn't make sense of her own actions, and it was maddening. She and Stiles were friends...good friends. She cared about him...a lot. He made her laugh, he understood her, he challenged her. When they were together, she felt...different...happy...better than she had ever felt with a boy. Why couldn't she ignore that nagging reflex to put distance between them when he was always so good to her?

She remembers the bright red color of her shoulder bag coming into view when she averted her eyes from Stiles to keep from staring. It had been tossed a few feet away, below the broken windows of the classroom. Particles of glass crunched like ice beneath her shoes, the four-inch heels she was wearing suddenly feeling like stilts as she timorously walked to retrieve her bag from the floor. Her legs were too unsteady to move naturally. She remembers being hyper-aware of the disadvantaged state she was in; her body physically rebelling against her – out of fear. She gingerly crouched down and picked up her bag, still more bits of glass and debris clinking like wind chimes as they tumbled to the floor.

Silently scoffing, Lydia straightened. It was one thing to feel like the world she knew – the one she was comfortable with, the one constructed with scientific evidence and facts – it was one thing to _feel_ like that world had been compromised, crumbling into pieces, bit by bit, each time another supernatural phenomenon emerged to shake her confidence. But now, the world was _literally_ crashing down around her too.

The endless barrage of turmoil was starting to make her head spin, so she grabbed a chair, dragged it to her desk, and sat down. She took slow deep breaths until the dizziness passed. Despite the fact that she desperately wanted to leave the room, she didn't want to bring attention to herself, so she remained seated. She remembers the pressing need to occupy her mind, so she clicked her pen and opened her notebook, locating a blank page. Within seconds, she was sketching out an image that had been popping into her mind for several days.

Almost immediately, Lydia could sense a pair of eyes on her. She didn't need to see them to know that they were soulful brown ones with gold flecks, but she risked a glance, nonetheless. Stiles was looking back at her with a concerned expression on his face. His body language conveyed the same unease; mouth twisted into a pout, arms crossed, index finger anxiously tapping on his elbow. Lydia remembers feeling that Stiles wasn't only looking _at her,_ he was looking _into her_. She knew that if she didn't turn away soon, he was going to figure out how upset she was, so she lowered her gaze to her notebook and methodically added details to the trunk of the tree she was drawing, with the intention of avoiding his stare for as long as possible.

Although drawing usually helped Lydia relax, on that particular day it provided no comfort. She remembers the overwhelming need to escape that coursed through her body and set her nerves on edge. The tension increased, pressure bearing down on her until she couldn't withstand it any longer, so she put away her notebook and impatiently waited for an opening.

She remembers seeing Sheriff Stilinski and Chris Argent enter the classroom. With Stiles and Allison distracted by the presence of their fathers, Lydia found the perfect opportunity to slip out of the room unnoticed...and she seized it.

In the hallway, she slung her bag over her shoulder and began to pick up pace, her Black Mary Jane's grinding left-over bits of glass that were lodged into their soles against the vinyl floor.

"I'll be right back, Dad," Stiles's voice faintly echoed through the empty corridor.

She was halfway to the exit that led to the parking lot when _his_ voice called out to her.

"Lydia...Lydia! Wait up!"

She meant to keep going. She really did...but something made her stop – an intense kind of nudging in her chest. Shortly after, she felt a familiar hand on her shoulder, and this time, instead of pulling away, she waited to see what Stiles would do next.

He stepped in front of her, thoughtfully focusing his attention on her. "Hey, it's—"

"I'm fine, Stiles," she interrupted, closing her eyes. She couldn't lie to his face.

"No, you aren't," he said softly but with resolute certainty. "Here... Come with me," he directed.

She didn't even have the chance to protest. Her eyes flashed open when his hands cuffed her wrists. The contact sent a surge of heat up the length of her arms. It moved across her shoulders, turned inwards, then nestled behind her ribs. She remembers wondering if their bodies had become linked in some sort of permanent way. She remembers how undeniably good it felt.

As Stiles walked backwards, steering her down the hallway, Lydia couldn't take her eyes off him. She was oblivious to anything other than the connection between them. Even when one of his hands released her wrist so he could open the door, the memory of his touch remained. He led her outside to the benches by the maple trees. There was no one else around. She remembers being stunned at his ability to understand that she needed to be away from everyone...everyone but him.

He took her bag from her shoulder and set it on the nearest bench. Just like in the classroom, without hesitation he wrapped his arms around her, and the full brunt of his enticing warmth came flooding back.

"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhat dumbfounded.

She could hear the smile forming on his lips when he answered, "Giving you a hug."

"Why?"

"Because you're trembling," he explained.

"I am?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

His arms were crossed behind her shoulder blades, hers were dangling loosely at her sides, and she wondered how having another person's arms around her could feel so inexplicably right. Catching herself as her tendency to over-analyze began to take hold, she ignored the irksome impulse to withdraw. So, rather than thinking about her next move, Lydia followed her heart...and her heart brought her closer to Stiles.

Her feet inched along the ground until their bodies fully connected. She remembers wanting to erase every hindersome boundary that kept her from sliding her hands inside his flannel and burying her face in his neck, but she settled for smashing her nose against his shoulder and clutching the back of his shirt with her fists.

Stiles responded, tightening his hold and resting his chin on the crown of her head...and the anxiety that had plagued her for the past thirty minutes started to dissipate. She remembers the moment that his hands shifted – one slowly traveling to the middle of her spine...pulling her just a tad closer, the other curling around her right shoulder...lightly squeezing as he reassured her with words.

"It's okay, Lydia. It's okay to be freaked out right now. I know it's a lot to deal with."

She exhaled a sound that fell somewhere between a sigh and a gasp, then leaned into him. Not too much...just a little more. She needed it. _She needed him._

Together they remained for a long moment, drenched in morning sunlight that filtered through the star-shaped leaves above their heads. The world had gone still. Even the air had been silenced; stagnant and heavy with early September heat. After so much confusion, there was calm, and it helped Lydia gather enough courage to begin to let go of her fear...and open up to Stiles.

"What's happening?" she whispered.

"I don't know."

"Stiles...I'm scared. What are we supposed to do?"

"I'm not sure yet, but it'll be alright," he said confidently.

"How can you know that?"

He placed his hands on her upper arms and hunched until their eyes were level. His expression was soft and sympathetic when he spoke to her. "We survived. Right?"

Lydia nodded, awestruck by the intensity of his eyes. She had no doubt that he was being sincere when he continued.

"And we... I mean...if we help each other...I'm thinking we can probably get through just about anything. It's worked for us so far. Hasn't it?"

Something in the quality of his voice allowed her to dismiss the last trace of her fear. "Yeah. Yeah, it has," she answered with misty eyes and a hopeful smile.

Lightly rubbing his hands up and down her arms, he smiled back. "Feel any better?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm glad," he replied. He gazed at her for a few seconds, but then his eyes shifted to the left and his brows pinched together.

"What?" she asked.

"You've got...a feather," he informed her.

Her mouth involuntarily quirked to one side in response. "Great..." she huffed, bemused laugh rising from her throat as she blindly felt around for the plume.

"Here... Let me," he offered, stopping her with his hand.

Her eyes followed the path it took as he reached near the braid that encircled the crown of her head. She remembers another dose of intoxicating warmth as Stiles leaned closer, his fingers working ever so gently into her hair. After a few seconds, his hand was in front of her, where he held out a single black raven's feather.

Lydia accepted it, spark tingling at her skin as their fingertips met.

Then Stiles's hand moved once more. A little less hesitantly, but just as tenderly as the first time, he repeatedly passed his palm over her hair to smooth it in place. "There... You're perfect again," he told her. "Still," he tacked on, almost inaudibly, before he flashed her a shy smile while he scratched at his chin.

Spinning the feather between her fingers, she tried to think of something to say, but no words seemed to suffice.

She considered that the best way to thank him was to return the simple gesture he offered moments ago. She remembers the breath getting caught in her throat when she decided to step closer to Stiles...and the way it released as soon as she had her arms around him.

Their bodies reconnected, her heart quickened, and Lydia suddenly realized...

That gesture, that hug he gifted her, was far from simple... _because it was from Stiles_ – the boy who threw his body over hers, put her well-being above his own, and wrapped her in warmth, without ever expecting a thing in return. By closing his arms around her, he had opened up a world of possibility. He gave her something _more_ – a piece of himself...a piece of hope. And it made her want to hold him...just a little bit closer...and a little bit longer too.

* * *

 **Present Day**

By the time Lydia's memory is recovered, the colors of the sunset have been absorbed by an endless jet-black sky. But there is still light. It's visible in the sprinkling of stars, and the thin silver glow of the crescent moon...and in Stiles's eyes, which cut through the darkness and make it shine.

The night air is unexpectedly cool, and she shivers in the lightweight material of the striped tee shirt and black shorts she is wearing.

"You cold?" Stiles asks, rolling onto his side.

"Yeah, a bit," she answers, twirling the feather she caught in her hands.

He reaches across her body, finds the edge of the plaid blanket they are lying on, and covers her with it. "How's that?"

"Okay...I guess," she leads.

Eagerly taking the hint, he partially drapes himself over her; his face hovering mere inches above hers, ridges of his ribs fitting together with hers, one of his legs hooked over both of hers. "How about now?"

"Getting warmer..." she admits, grasping his shoulder.

Stiles leans down to kiss her, and Lydia melts under lips that taste and feel too perfect to accurately describe with words, a tongue that instantly sends shivers all over her body with the lightest contact, and tiny puffs of his breath that tickle the skin above her mouth. As if that weren't perfect enough, one of his hands works its way below her shirt, caressing the curve of her waist in the most delightfully gentle and loving way, which somehow expresses both desire and respect at the same time.

"What about now?" he says, pulling back to look at her with a crooked grin.

"Now, we're getting somewhere," she happily concedes, gripping his bicep and working her hand underneath the sleeve of his shirt.

His eyes are still focused on hers. He seems to know that she wants to tell him something, so he waits patiently, running his fingers through the ends of her hair.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember that day at school, when all of those ravens crashed through the windows?"

"Uh-huh."

Lydia draws a line down the center of his face with the feather she still holds, and he scrunches up his nose and mouth before smiling again and sucking in his lower lip.

"You found a feather like this in my hair."

"That's right."

"I just remembered. I still have it."

"You kept it all this time?"

She nods and kisses his nose. "Yeah. That's the thing with feathers... You never know when or if you are going to come across one...but once you do, and you hold it in your hand...and you can feel how soft it is...and you think about how, at the same time, it's so powerful...'cause it makes something as miraculous as flight possible...something you only ever dream of experiencing...then, you never want to let it go."

Stiles briefly closes his eyes. When his lids slowly reopen, the gleam they reveal tells Lydia that he understands the meaning behind her words...but still, she wants to say more.

"Do you have any idea what you did for me that day? Not just in the classroom, when you protected me the way you did...but after...when you took me outside..."

"What do you mean?"

"You recognized right away that I wasn't okay...that I was more scared than I was willing to admit. But the way you held me, and the things you said – the way you were _so sure_ that we'd be okay if we stuck together... Stiles, you gave me something so precious. You gave me hope...and no matter what, you always manage to do that."

He stretches up to kiss her forehead, earnest emotion in his voice when he replies, "You do the same for me, Lydia Martin."

And hearing him say those words makes the night even brighter.


	5. In a Clearing

Drifting in subconscious  
Our love grows like branches  
And I will love you in the garden where the tree stands  
\- Midnight Starlet by Foy Vance

* * *

On a sunny Friday morning in June, Lydia and Stiles are walking hand in hand to Lynbrook Park. The air is comfortably warm, the sky clear blue, majestic white clouds perfectly dispersed overhead, like something straight out of a painting – truly, a perfect day.

The couple follows along a dirt path that cuts through an expanse of tall grass and fragrant multi-colored wildflowers on their way to the hardly used side entrance of the park. When they approach it, Stiles lets go of Lydia's hand to release the rusty latch on the weathered wood barrier. She waits, her eyes chasing the irregular flight patterns of a few bumblebees and arrowhead butterflies, as he nudges the gate with the tip of his sneaker until it opens.

With a trace of a smile on her crimson lips, Lydia glides past the narrow gap that allows for their passage. She gazes ahead into the misty glow that illuminates the tree-lined path, but Stiles hesitates. He reaches down to gather a handful of violets, then secures the gate behind him before silently reconnecting with Lydia. With one hand, he grazes the inside of her wrist, slides his fingers over her palm, and tightly weaves their fingers together. With the other, he presents the blossoms he picked, grinning as he nibbles on his bottom lip. Her heart flutters at the sight of him, and her smile grows.

They've been together for two weeks now, and in that time, Lydia has already lost count of all the sweet words, tender touches, and loving gestures between them. She can't help but ponder the fact that Stiles has an exceptional talent for creating unexpectedly romantic moments, filling otherwise empty space with signs of his affection. It makes her ache a little to think that she may never be able to show how much she loves him in such perfectly spontaneous ways, but she is determined to try.

Accepting the petite bouquet, she rises to the tips of her toes, then plants a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Stiles leans in to meet her lips, arm sliding around her neck, deepening the contact and relaxing her until she can actually feel the love she holds pouring out of her mouth and into his. The way his eyes remain closed, even after the kiss has ended, tells Lydia that perhaps she is better at conveying her emotions than she thought. She caresses his cheek with the violets he gave her, and he awakens with a smile.

Without a word, they journey deeper into the sanctuary of the gardens on a winding trail that eventually alters from gravel to concrete below their soles. All the while, a border of native California lilacs guides Lydia and Stiles to their favorite nook – a sheltered area of the grounds that is shaded by of a grove of cottonwood trees and surrounded by a sea of orange poppies and blue flax flowers.

In the shadow of one particularly large tree, rests a wooden bench with its intricate wrought-iron frame – _their bench._ The one that will always be _their bench_ because of the beautiful new memory that is linked to it. The one where they sat together for hours, two days after Stiles returned. Where he put his arm around her, and where she rested her head on his shoulder. Where they held hands, admiring the way the sunlight glistened across the rippling waters of the lake. Where they were able to catch their breath and relish in the joy of kissing each other – _without_ the threat of impending supernatural catastrophe hurrying them along. Where they were so overcome by emotion that the only words their mouths seemed to know how to articulate were: _I missed you_ and _I missed you so much_...over and over again. Where their sighs reverently carried the sound of each other's names...in between kisses, and hugs, and long lingering glances. Where every touch between them tugged at the strings that so intimately linked their hearts, playing a unique melody that could be heard without the benefit of sound. Lydia recognized it. She had heard it before, whenever she was with Stiles, but now she understood its meaning. It told her that spending _forever_ with Stiles was no longer an idyllic wish or a hope for the future. It told her that _their forever_ had already begun.

Lydia steps closer. She is anxious to curl up next to her love, to hold him and kiss him. She wants to listen to their song play while she traces the angles of his cheekbones and jawline. She wants to appreciate the lyrical cadence of their melody while she explores the lines of his shoulders and the shape of his lips. She longs to hear the harmony develop when Stiles returns her touches; strong arms supporting her and hands gripping at her waist as he coaxes beats from her heart, then strums notes on the small of her back with his fingertips.

As she is about to take her place on their bench, he stretches his arm in front of her body to stop her. Using the palm of his hand, he sweeps aside a light dusting of dirt and a few leaves that have collected atop the cedar slats. A simple act, done with such care and consideration that it becomes so much more. Lydia watches him...and she remembers.

 _She remembers the day Stiles told her about Donovan Donati..._

* * *

It was October, and Lydia was in the woods...again. This time, she hadn't wandered there in a fugue state, nor had she followed her friends into the darkness while desperately trying to avert the next crisis. This time, it was a bright autumn morning. This time, she was with Stiles, and they were searching for something – specifically, the Nemeton.

Regardless of the grim purpose of their trek into the Beacon Hills Preserve, Lydia remembers that she had been looking forward to the prospect of spending time with Stiles – just the two of them...like it used to be. It felt like ages since they had done anything together, a lifetime since they had one of their hours-long conversations or simply sat in silence, needing nothing but the comfort of each other's company to make them happy. So, if she had to enter the confines of the town's epicenter of mystical energy, a place that endlessly sought to do them harm and preyed upon their sanity, in order to get some time alone with Stiles, she was more than willing to do it.

For nearly two hours, they had tried...and failed to locate the ancient tree. Unfortunately, most of their time had been spent walking in circles and bickering with each other. Lydia was tired, disappointed, and irritated. She was starting to wonder if maybe Stiles was right – the Nemeton didn't _want_ to be found. Either way, they had made no progress, and she had reached her limit.

As she headed to her car, she was hyperaware of her surroundings. She remembers the way golden-yellow sunlight shone through a canopy of branches, touching her shoulders and the crown of her head. She remembers the sound of birds singing from distances high above her and of fallen leaves crunching beneath her knee-high boots with every step she took. But despite the illusion of tranquility, Lydia was left with a distinctly unsettling feeling – a lack of warmth deep inside, a nagging sense of dread that caused every noise to startle her and make her shudder.

Granted, she was in the preserve – a place that typically yielded peril at every turn – so, her fear was not completely irrational...nor was it what she would call an entirely new experience. But on this particular day, her disquiet had intensified to an unusually high level, and she was pretty sure it had something to do with Stiles.

Lydia remembers how stubbornly he disagreed with her about telling Jordan Parrish that he was the one bringing chimera bodies to the Nemeton in the middle of the night. She also remembers the frustrated expression on his face and the way he lagged behind when she told him that she was leaving.

Stepping past a few gnarled branches and low-lying undergrowth, she came to a clearing. That's when she felt it again – a powerfully familiar tugging sensation around her heart. The kind that made her abruptly stop in her tracks. The kind that informed her that Stiles was farther away than she was comfortable with. So, she waited for him, all the while going over the conversation they had, just moments before...

 _"If the Nemeton's covered in bodies, shouldn't you be able to find them?" he asked._

 _"Me?"_

 _"Yes, you," Stiles answered a bit harshly. "That's what you do. You're the Banshee... You find the bodies."_

 _She wondered if that's all she was to him now – some kind of supernatural metal detector whose only purpose was to "find the bodies". In truth, the sharpness in his tone had stung more than his choice of words, but she brushed it off and fired back._

 _"Well, the Banshee's having an off day. So how about we talk to Parrish?"_

 _"We can't."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _His body language shifted, and he lowered his voice. "Because one of the bodies... One of them...one of them could be..."_

 _"Could be what?" she questioned impatiently._

 _"One of them could be a clue."_

His voice echoed in her mind: _One of them could be a clue._

There was something about the way he stumbled and searched for words that gave her pause. Something that revealed he was troubled, weighed down...hurting. At times like this, Lydia wished she had Scott's hearing capabilities. If she did, she could have used it to detect any changes in Stiles's heart rate as they spoke. It would have given her proof that her concern was warranted, that it was more than a side-effect of her overprotective tendencies towards Stiles.

In the very same moment, Lydia realized that she didn't need auditory proof to _know_ that something was wrong. _She knew Stiles._ Though he hadn't blatantly lied to her, it was obvious that he was withholding. She knew it by the way his eyes wouldn't meet hers, by the visible tightness in his shoulders, by his slow and deliberate hand gestures, and by the guarded way he stood so that he was slightly turned away from her. All of the confirmation she needed had been right in front of her because Lydia understood _more than his words_ – she understood _his heart_ without having to hear a single beat. It was signaling to her, loud and clear.

And it told her that _Stiles was afraid_.

Once she gave it more thought, Lydia recognized that he hadn't been himself for several weeks. He was distant and quiet, and far more anxious than usual. Something was seriously wrong, and she needed to know what it was.

Lydia remembers hearing Stiles approach from behind her, swishing of leaves and occasional snapping of twigs announcing his arrival. She turned to face him, scrutinizing him with her eyes.

"What did you mean before?" she asked rather abruptly.

He looked blankly at her.

"You said one of the bodies could be a clue. What did you mean by that?" she clarified.

This time he responded, but his answer came too quickly to sound natural. "Nothing... I didn't mean anything."

"Stiles..."

When he lapsed into silence, it only strengthened Lydia's desire to find out what was worrying him.

"Stiles, I know there is something bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me," he insisted, feigning indifference by shrugging and casually shaping his mouth into a frown. "You were right. We're not getting anywhere here...so let's just go."

She remembers the rush of anger that surged inside of her. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at him. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"What? No!" He seemed genuinely surprised by her question. His brows furrowed, and he took a few steps towards her...but then he got defensive. "Where the hell did that come from anyway? It's ridiculous!"

"Is it? You _have_ to realize that I can tell there's something going on with you. I see you Stiles. _I see you_ , and lately...you aren't yourself at all. You're barely eating. I know you aren't sleeping...cause you're doing that thing...that thing where you rub your eyes and you blink a lot. On top of that you're all jumpy and tense and—"

"Lydia, I—"

"And..." she interrupted, volume elevating as she crossed her arms, _"I am not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on with you."_

"Lydia, leave it alone," he warned firmly as he avoided eye contact by looking over her head. "Let's go... Alright? We're already late for school."

"Didn't matter to you five minutes ago."

"Yeah...well, I've got this sudden overwhelming desire to solve quadratic equations," he deflected sarcastically, matching her stance and folding his arms across his chest.

She rolled her eyes and bit her tongue to stifle a laugh...because even when she is angry, Stiles can always manage to get her to smile. It reminded her that no matter how much space was between them, he was still _her Stiles_ – the boy that could literally charm the irritation out of her with a wink and a sharp-minded quip _._ So, instead of snapping back at him, Lydia decided to try a different tactic. Slowly, she moved towards him and gently placed her hand on top of his – the one that was anxiously tapping against his bicep. She remembers the way he stopped fidgeting as soon as their skin connected.

"Stiles, come on. It's me. You can tell me anything. You know that... Don't you?"

He kept his eyes focused on their hands. "Not this. I can't talk about it. I—"

She watched his countenance shift as he instantly recognized his mistake.

"So, there _is_ something."

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then screwed his mouth into a pout. "Look, I'm not doing this right now." He sidestepped her and began walking towards the direction where she had parked her car.

"Stiles, wait." Lydia swiftly spun around and followed after him. "Stiles!" she repeated as she grabbed a hold of his right shoulder.

"Ah!" he winced, recoiling from her touch. Before she knew what happened, he whirled around angrily. "Lydia! I said leave it alone!" he shouted.

She froze – stunned and insulted. She could feel her eyes widen and sting with tears, but she blinked them away. This wasn't about her. It was about Stiles.

His face immediately changed again; eyes softening, cheeks deepening in hue, lips parted in shock. His hands reached out for her, but he didn't touch her. "I— Lydia, I'm sorry. I'm _so sorry._ I didn't mean to..."

She remembers the way her stomach lurched when she saw the depth of his pain. She shouldn't have been surprised by it, yet she was. She had noticed that his shoulder was hurting weeks earlier, but when he evaded her questions, she didn't press further...and she wasn't sure why. One thing was for sure though – she wasn't going to let that happen again.

His harsh reaction told her that his injury was far more serious than she originally thought. All this time, Stiles had been suffering in silence; never lifting his arm above chest height, never hooking his lacrosse gear over his shoulder, flinching with discomfort whenever he put a jacket on. All along, he had been silently communicating with her, and she had missed it. Guilt seemed to rise up from the ground; tangled mass of weeds, shaped like hands and claws, snaked so tightly around her ankles that she couldn't move.

Lydia pursed her lips to stop them from trembling. "This isn't like you, Stiles," she remarked, shaking her head. "I don't understand why you won't talk to me."

He glanced down, eyes pooling with remorse. "I want to...but—"

"Then go ahead."

"I _can't_... Not about this," he gritted out.

"How can you say that? I know things aren't...like they used to be, but you can _still_ talk to me...unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Don't you trust me anymore?"

Her voice cracked over each syllable. She remembers struggling to control her emotions, but the thought that Stiles had a secret which he couldn't confide in her nearly tore her in two. Closing her eyes and awaiting his answer, she prepared herself to hear the words _No, I don't,_ but then she felt him touch her shoulders, heat of his hands bleeding through the knit of her light grey cardigan.

"Of course I do. It's not a matter of trust...it could _never_ be like that with you."

His breath breezed past her nose, and when her eyes flashed open, his face was mere inches from hers.

"Then what is it?" she whispered.

He braced one hand on the side of her neck, thumb lightly resting on her jaw. The other traveled the length of her opposite arm, stopping as his fingers wrapped around her palm. His tone was nothing but gentle when he spoke to her.

"I can't get you involved. Just knowing about it could get you into trouble. I... I can't do that to you. It's not fair."

Immeasurable relief flooded her body. Stiles still trusted her – and that was all the reassurance she needed. She remembers how the love she always felt for him seemed more present in that moment. The knowledge that he was trying to protect her, regardless of everything he was going through, nurtured her love and solidified her desire to unburden him.

"But it's not your decision. It's mine. Don't you know by now?" she asked with dismay. "If it concerns you, then I'm already involved." Shrinking the hollow between them, she fisted the sides of his hoodie and looked into his eyes. "Something happened to you, and I need you to tell me what it is. I don't care what the risks are."

"But _I_ do," he admitted, matching her grip, hands low on her hips, clutching at the sides of her denim cut-offs. "I— You're... You're too important to me."

Lydia remembers the tremor that rolled through his entire body as she released his shirt and eased her hands around his back. "Stiles, I _want_ to help you. _Please let me."_

She held him, and he surrendered. Just like that. All the tension between them acting like a rubber band that had been stretched a bit too far, then finally allowed to snap into place. His arms enveloped her, and his body racked with muted sobs. The contact between them miraculously lessening his will to withhold.

"Okay... It's okay," she tried to soothe him.

"No, it isn't. Lydia, I did something..."

She remembers how he buried his face in her neck, how his hands spread across her shoulder blades as he pulled her closer, and how his chest heaved and his stomach tightened against hers. She couldn't imagine what he could have done that was causing him so much grief, but she knew in her heart that he couldn't be at fault. No matter what he was about to disclose to her, she was going to be there for him. There was no turning back. _She was with him_...and that was exactly how it was supposed to be.

"Stiles, I'm here. I'm with you," she repeated, over and over, until he calmed.

Several minutes later, Stiles despondently began unwinding from their embrace, and Lydia led him to a nearby slab of slate. She remembers how, even in the state of upset he was in, he put an arm in front of her to stop her from sitting. With the other, he brushed the leaves and dirt from the surface of the rock. When he was finished, she stopped staring at him in awe and took her place. She remembers that it was splayed with patches of bright green moss, and that it felt cold and slightly damp against the back of her legs...but when Stiles sat close beside her, she was warm. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and she set both of her hands on his forearm, patiently waiting for him to speak.

Lydia remembers everything Stiles told her about the night Donovan attacked him. She remembers the quiver in his voice as he described each detail. Not only did she hear his pain, she could feel it, and it connected with a place deep inside. A place that only he had ever been able to reach. Her heart ached with need for him – the need to help him, the need to have him as close to her as possible, the unrelenting need to tell him she loved him, as if her feelings for him could magically heal all of his wounds.

When Stiles was finished talking, he kept his head ducked. "Lydia, say something. If it changes everything...how you see me...I'll understand...but please, just tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking how awful it must have been for you, to go through that, to be so scared...and to think you had no one to turn to."

His head slowly lifted, his expression one of astonished disbelief – like he didn't think he deserved her compassion.

She took his hand and pulled it into her lap. "Stiles, I'm sorry."

"What? Why?" he asked incredulously. "You didn't—"

"I let you down. I should have tried harder that day in your room. I knew something wasn't right. I knew it and I—"

He squeezed her hand. "No. Don't do that. I'm not going to let you take any blame in this."

"But you're my best friend, and you've been carrying all of this pain and fear around...on your own... _for weeks._ I should have realized. I should have done something sooner."

"No, that's on me. I've been avoiding you."

"Why?"

He gently pushed her hair behind her shoulder. "Because you know me so well. I was afraid you'd be able to tell...that you'd see I'm...different...that I'm wrong inside."

"No, you aren't."

"I have to be. I wanted him to die. Lydia...I was relieved."

"Wanting something doesn't make it happen and..."

Lydia nearly choked over how profoundly those words resonated within her; their marked symmetry shedding harsh light on a struggle she had been wrestling with for months. She knew all too well. If wanting something was enough to make it happen, she and Stiles would already be a couple. Focusing her attention on their joined hands, she tried her best to finish speaking despite the way her heart was racing.

"And...of course you were relieved. You were in an impossible situation – you were fighting for your life. He threatened your dad, and if he hadn't died, he...he would have killed you that night. But there is no way you could have known that loosening that shelf would—"

"It still happened though. Something I did...killed someone...and then I left him there."

"You were scared, and I can only imagine just how much...but listen to me... The fact that you are struggling so much with this just proves to me that you're the same person I've always known. Stiles, you are _so good_ inside. I know it. I feel it. If you weren't, you wouldn't care...it wouldn't matter to you. What happened was awful, but _I know_ you didn't intend for it to end that way...and that counts for a whole lot."

"What am I going to do now?" he asked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I—I can't change it."

"No, you can't. I hate that you are hurting like this, but I'm glad you survived...and I'm glad that you told me...and now, I need you to let me help you...the way you always help me." She raised her left hand, gliding her fingers through his hair, then cupping her palm around the nape of his neck. "I think you already know what I'm going to say."

He shuddered through an inhale. "That I need to tell my dad. That I need to tell Scott."

"Yes. You have to try. I know it won't be easy, but they need to hear the truth...and it has to come from you."

"But what about all of the trouble this is going to cause my dad? What about Scott? Things have been...off with us lately. What if..."

"What if what?"

"What if they don't believe me?" he asked with quivering lips, evident anguish impressed upon his beautiful face.

She offered him a small smile. "Stiles, they'll believe you. They know you, and...and they love you. They'll understand...and even if they don't...you're not going to be alone. Okay? You still have me. I'm with you, and we will figure it out...together."

Sighing heavily, he dropped his head, in what seemed like a mixture of relief and gratitude. Within seconds, he wound his arms around her body and hugged her close. "Lydia... Lyds... It's been torture...keeping this from you," he gasped.

"Oh, Stiles..." she said through a sharp intake of air, immediately shifting closer to him and returning the embrace.

"I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me. I'll never do this to us again."

Temporarily rendered speechless at his use of the word _us,_ Lydia nodded into his shoulder. She swallowed with difficulty over the lump in her throat, anxious to respond, "I forgive you. I'll _always_ forgive you. It's okay now. _We're_ okay."

The sound of her voice was muffled by the hood of his pullover, but she had no doubt that Stiles heard her, loud and clear. Lydia remembers the way his body relaxed into hers. The weight of his palms pressed into her back, bringing her nearer and nearer...until she could practically feel their bodies merging, beats of his heart wordlessly pulsing out a message to her.

When he eventually pulled back to look at her, beams of light refracted through the glossy sheen of his eyes. She recognized that light. It came from within him. She remembers the affection it conveyed – warm and familiar, and after weeks of detachment...so dearly longed for. _Her Stiles_ was still there, he was never really gone. She remembers the beauty of that moment between them, how it cut through the pain and made it easier to bear, how it made her love for him grow bigger, hold stronger, and root deeper.

"What would I do without you?" he breathed, resting his forehead against hers.

"Let's never find out." Her tone was barely a whisper, but it echoed through the vast woods. It carried beyond the unsettling sound of rustling leaves in the distance, drowned out the ominous call of vultures that circled the trees, and rose above them like a promise...just waiting to be fulfilled.

"Lydia?"

"Mmm..."

"We're going to get this right someday... Aren't we?"

"Yes, Stiles. I think someday soon," she answered. Because she knew they would. Because the tethers that linked them were so strong that nothing could break them. No matter what, she and Stiles would always find a way to communicate with each other – even in silence.

* * *

 **Present Day**

When Lydia emerges from her memory, she is seated next to Stiles on their bench. She is tucked into his side, his left arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, his right hand caressing her cheek.

"Lyds, are you okay?"

She meets his gaze with entranced green eyes and nods her head.

"You've got that look in your eyes again," he notes, moving his hand to her hip, his thumb grazing the fabric of her red floral romper. "Where'd you go just now?" he asks gently.

"Into the woods..."

"Oh... No wonder you spaced out. Nothing good ever happens there."

"Once in a while it does," she replies mysteriously. "Anyway, I was with _you_ ," she added. "We were in a clearing, and you trusted me...and it was beautiful."

He loops his fingers around her wrist and kisses her hand – the one that is still clutching the posy of violets he gave her. Then he shifts closer, so she can drape her legs over his lap. His eyes never leave hers; irises glowing in the sunlight, silently communicating his love for her...exactly as they were on the day in her memory. But unlike that day, today Stiles is unburdened. He is free of pain, remorse, and fear. He is happy, and hopeful, and smiling.

And he, Lydia thinks, is rather beautiful too.


	6. Even if You Slip Away

'Cause even underneath the waves  
I'll be holding on to you  
And even if you slip away  
I'll be there to fall into the dark  
To chase your heart  
No distance could ever tear us apart  
There's nothing that I wouldn't do  
I'll find my way back to you  
\- Find My Way Back to You by Eric Arjes

* * *

Lydia is standing in her backyard with the sun blazing above her head and a soft breeze blowing across her skin. She glances at her dog, Prada, who has sprawled on an outdoor lounge chair to wrestle with a toy that nearly matches her for size. The black and white Papillon lets out a high-pitched bark, followed by a less than intimidating growl, then lunges at her opponent, tail playfully wagging the entire time. Shaking her head, Lydia adjusts the straps of her teal-blue bathing suit. She hears laughter echoing from a few feet away.

"Don't laugh at her," she reprimands without turning around. "You're the one who got her that ridiculous thing. It's almost as big as she is."

"I couldn't help myself. When we were in the pet shop, I could tell that she was drawn to it..." Stiles replies, voice getting closer with each word, "and I love to spoil my girls," he whispers as he tucks Lydia's hair behind her ear, "both of them."

Her stomach clenches as his exhale caresses her earlobe and neck, and her lungs cease to expand when his bare chest and abdomen graze her back, but she continues talking, trying to disguise how affected she is by the barely-there contact between them.

"You're not serious..." she retorts, looking at Stiles over her shoulder with wide eyes and curled lips. "She was _drawn_ to it?... Really?... I _saw_ you coaxing her down the toy aisle while I was picking out her new harness."

One minute, the stone patio is hot under Lydia's bare feet, little tufts of grass that grow between the tiles tickling her toes. The next, she feels an arm winding around her back, another sliding under her legs…and she ends up securely cradled in Stiles's arms.

"I'm telling you, Lyds, she was drawn to it... Obviously, not in the same way you and I are drawn to each other but—"

She silences him, pressing her mouth firmly against his and enjoying the way he immediately parts his lips, allowing her to deepen the kiss.

When Stiles breaks for a breath, his nose still smashed into her cheek, Lydia says coyly, "What makes you so sure I'm drawn to you?"

"That kiss for one..." he sighs heavily, "Last night for another... Don't forget this morning either."

She drapes her arms over his shoulders and hides her face in his neck, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

He takes a few steps forward. "Oh, you don't... Huh?"

"Nope," she fibs, lifting her head to kiss his jaw.

"Are you sure?"

Sensing the continuous forward motion of his steps, she stops mid-kiss. "Stiles…what are you doing?" she asks. "Stiles…"

He steps up to the edge of the in-ground swimming pool.

"Stilinski!" Lydia shrieks, wildly swinging her legs and tightening her hold on him. "Don't you _dare_ even _think_ about throwing me into that pool or I'll…I'll—"

"You'll what?" he questions with raised brows.

And he looks so beautiful with his disheveled hair...and his bright excited eyes which are changing color by the second...and his wiry little smirk, so beautiful that she can't even think clearly.

"I—I don't know..." she stammers, "but...I'll think of something!"

He laughs, swaying her gently from side to side as he proceeds to tease her a bit more. "Lyds," he begins with feigned offence, "I'm highly insulted that you'd even _consider_ the possibility that _I_ would toss _you_..." He pauses for a moment, then resumes by inundating her with compliments, punctuating each of them with a kiss. "You, my perfect...highly intelligent...incredibly gorgeous...unbelievably thoughtful and loving... Did I already mention perfect? Doesn't matter... It's worth repeating. Do you really think I would toss my perfect girlfriend— Did I just call you my girlfriend? That sounds so...not enough..."

"Stiles... I'm trying to be annoyed with you! Stop being so adorable!" she giggles.

"I shouldn't have said girlfriend… I should have said love of my life."

Before she can respond, he kisses her again and it makes her stomach swirl...over and over...in the best possible way. The air is hot and humid, their skin is sticking together with sweat, but all Lydia can think about is the fact that Stiles just called her the love of his life. She holds him tighter still because she doesn't want him or this feeling to slip away from her.

"What was I saying? Oh yeah... Do you really think that I would toss you into the deep end of the pool? I would never do that…" Stiles kisses her one more time, letting his mouth linger against hers, then nudges the tip of her nose with his. He remains quiet for a few beats, after which the pace of his speech abruptly changes as he hurries to finish his statement. " _But_...I would jump in with you... Like right now!"

"Stiles!" she squeals, as he steps back, then races forward, leaping off the patio and plunging them into the pool.

As they free-fall, the world becomes a dizzying blur of color and light. Lydia holds her breath and squeezes her eyes shut…just in time to brace herself for the rush of water that surges above her head.

Sounds become muffled, bubbles tickle her skin, and her body becomes weightless. Seconds later, when she breaks through the surface of the water, Lydia is still firmly anchored by Stiles's arms. Inhaling deeply, she watches the fire ignite in his eyes as he blinks them to clarity. He is tentatively searching her face for a reaction, his curiosity laced with a spark of hope.

Lydia guesses she should be annoyed that the time she spent styling her hair in the morning had been in vain, but for some reason she can't stop smiling. Whether it's the relief from the heat, or the way Stiles is holding her, or the fact that only moments earlier, he called her the love of his life – she is just _too happy_ and _too in love_ to care about her hair.

She leans in, delicately touching her lips to his. He releases her legs, and she feels them sink into the water as he loops both arms around her waist. When she pulls back, Stiles lifts a hand to swipe the remaining droplets from her face and then his own.

"So…you think I'm adorable... Huh?" he flirts, biting his lip through a broadening grin.

"Yeah," she laughs softly. "Yeah, you are. It's a good thing too...or I'd be _so mad_ right now. Do you have any idea how long it takes me to blow-dry my hair?" She smooths his hair back, shaking her head. "Yours will air-dry in less than twenty minutes and look perfect..." she notes, "but mine—"

"Always looks beautiful. _You_ are beautiful," he tells her, speckling kisses across her neck and chest.

"Mmm... Nice tactic – trying to distract me like that. I _am_ going to get you back though," she warns as she squirms out of his arms and paddles away.

He counters her move, swimming closer, but she swipes at the water with her left hand, sending a wave in his direction. It laps along his chest and shoulders.

"Come on, Lyds. You can do better than that," he challenges, splashing in response while flaunting a devilishly handsome grin.

She swiftly withdraws so the brunt of the upsurge rolls against her back, then spins towards him again. "Okay… Have it your way," she laughs, smacking the water more forcefully.

Even with his eyes closed to avoid being inundated with water, Stiles finds Lydia's wrist amidst the precipitous spray that strikes him. "You're too far away. Come here," he calls, tugging her nearer until their bodies reconnect.

She relaxes in his arms, hoping to give him the impression that she is surrendering. Once he loosens his grip, she wriggles free and swims behind him. Then, bracing her hands on his shoulders, she pushes him under the water.

As soon as Stiles is submerged, Lydia's body goes cold. She lets go of him, she drifts below the water, and she remembers.

 _She remembers the night of the ritual..._

* * *

Lydia was in a dimly lit room in Deaton's clinic. She remembers a metal tub that was filled with icy water and the feeling of pins and needles that plagued her from the tips of her fingers to her wrists. Stiles was beneath her palms, his shoulders tense, the fabric of his tee shirt water-logged and dense between her digits. Their friends were alongside him – Allison to his right, with Isaac; Scott to his left, with Deaton. They were both fighting the same battle against their executioners – the ones Deaton called _emotional tethers._

It didn't take long for the throbbing in Lydia's hands to spread to her forearms. As uncomfortable as it felt, all she could think about was the fact that Allison, Scott, and Stiles were experiencing the same awful sensation…all over their bodies. Worst of all, she knew that Stiles was in pain _because of her._

She was the one holding him underwater, and she remembers how his body shook with tremors, thrashing against the water from the cold…thrashing _against her_ in those last moments as his fight reflex activated. He struggled to come up for a breath. He struggled _to live._ He struggled under _her hands_.

She told herself that she didn't have a choice, that she was doing what he wanted, what he needed…like he always did for her. But deep down, Lydia knew she was hurting him _– Stiles_ – the boy who would _never_ so much as _think_ of lifting one finger to hurt her, and that realization racked her body with an even greater agony.

She looked at Isaac. He was already facing her, his eyes wide and mouth agape, the panic on his face reflecting the turbulent cyclone of anguish she felt inside. She turned to Deaton. His eyes were fixed on Scott, focus complete, demeanor calm as ever, but it did nothing to reassure her.

Lydia remembers the tightness in her chest. Stiles couldn't take a breath, and neither could she. She remembers fighting to ignore her own instincts which were begging her to just let go, let Stiles come up for air, let him breathe. _But she couldn't._ She promised to help him find his father. When she made that promise, Lydia never imagined that _this_ would be the only way to do it. Now, she had no way out. After all, it was her fault Sheriff Stilinski was taken in the first place. If he hadn't been trying to save her life, the Darach never would have taken him.

An intensely sickening feeling stirred inside, her stomach twisting at the thought of what she was doing. She was supposed to be helping Stiles, but the truth was – _she was killing him._ The truth was – she was taking the life of the boy who had saved hers. The boy who had come to mean more to her than any other in the world. The boy she kissed only a few hours before. The boy who lit up the dark spots in her life like it was his life's purpose. And worst of all, the awful truth was – _he might not come back._

Lydia remembers the stinging in her eyes and the trembling of her lips as the familiar and comforting tugging sensation she had been feeling all day transformed into a piercing jab intended straight for the center of her heart.

She fiercely withheld the scream that was clawing its way up her throat. By then, the freezing water had numbed her hands, and the deadening ache was radiating up to her shoulders. Stiles resisted one last time, his body jolting…then going still. She felt him slip away. She felt him die, and the loss she experienced was worse than the struggle that preceded it.

Slowly, she dragged her shaking hands out of the water and backed up a few clumsy steps. Deaton tried to guide her to a chair, but she shrugged away from him. She remembers wanting to pound her fists against him and yell at him for suggesting her friends take this risk, for allowing them to sacrifice their lives to awaken the Nemeton, for not finding another way to rescue their missing parents…but she couldn't move.

 _Allison_ was dead. _Scott_ was dead. _Stiles_ was dead – and it all _hurt so much._

Unassisted, she claimed the seat closest to Stiles. She looked down at her lap, watching beads of water run off her palms and seep through the fabric of her pale blue dress...just like the chill that was seeping throughout every inch of her. The type of chill that penetrates down to the bone and doesn't relent. Reeling from shock, she stared ahead blankly. She couldn't cry. She couldn't even blink. She couldn't tear her eyes from the body in the tub of water in front of her. Stiles's body – which only minutes ago was animated, and alive, and driven by his beautiful beating heart. His body which, only hours ago, was warm and alert, and full of sarcasm and wit.

The glaring white light of an illuminated x-ray box caught Lydia's eyes from across the room. It was cold and artificial. It was nothing like the light she always saw in Stiles's eyes – a kind of light that was real, and pure. A light that smoldered even in the dark, like embers which continue to glow long after a fire has burned out. A light that she might never see again. The thought alone filled her with a devastating feeling of hopelessness.

 _But you know how I'll feel?... I'll be devastated._

Stiles selflessly gave his life to save his father's. He put himself in _her_ unworthy hands – to anchor him, to keep him safe, to be a focal point so he could find his way back. The responsibility weighed heavily on her. She had no idea what to do, how to keep Stiles from drifting too far, how to pull him back. _What if I'm not strong enough? What if I fail him?_

 _And if you die, I will literally go out of my freakin' mind._

Her ears started ringing. She shut her eyes, and she saw Stiles. Eventually, the discordance was replaced with quiet when it occurred to Lydia that even in despair, he was getting through to her. It had to mean they were still connected.

 _But it's not just someone to hold you under. It needs to be someone who can pull you back, someone that has a strong connection to you, a kind of emotional tether. Lydia... You go with Stiles._

Deaton paired her with Stiles. Somehow, he knew – _they were linked._ Lydia had already thought it many times before. She had felt it…again and again. All of those times when Stiles would say just the right thing to make her smile…or when he would stand next to her, and she wanted to step even closer…or when he would reach for her hand, and she would think about lacing their fingers together. She felt it today too – _when she kissed him._

When she closed her eyes and kissed Stiles, her sight had never been more clear.

In those moments, _she saw with her heart._ In her heart, Lydia knew that she and Stiles were more than friends. And for the first time, she was afraid that Stiles didn't know she felt that way.

Afterwards, Lydia remembers worry, pain, and fear. Her thoughts paddling from Stiles, to Allison, to Scott, back to Stiles. _Focus on Stiles…or he won't come back._ Time seemed to be slowing down, but her mind was racing to find a way to keep him from drifting too far. She was circling an idea when the sound of Isaac's voice broke her concentration.

"How do we do this?" he asked.

Her head snapped in his direction.

Isaac stood with his arms crossed over his chest, face white as a sheet, eyes pointed at Deaton. "How _in the hell_ are we supposed to pull them back?" he repeated.

"You need to remain calm and focused," Deaton began.

Lydia's eyes involuntarily rolled. The man was so composed that it only added to her agitation, but she pursed her lips to prevent any pointed remarks from escaping her mouth.

Isaac, on the other hand, was unable to withhold. "Calm? You expect us to be _calm_ when three of our friends are dead! Why is it taking so long? You said minutes… It's been nearly an hour already."

She remembers being surprised that so much time had passed. Her eyes flicked to the clock which indicated that exactly fifty-six minutes had gone by, causing her anxiety to spike drastically. The tightness in her chest became even more acute, making it painful to breathe.

"I said if it went well…" Deaton clarified.

Isaac's eyes narrowed, his arms waving through the air. "So, then I guess it's logical to assume that it's _not_ going well."

 _Logical. Nothing about this is logical,_ she thought.

But Lydia tried to redirect her nervous energy into something useful – like figuring out a way to bring her friends back. She remembers the desperate need for silence. She had been close to something before Isaac started talking. If she could only have some quiet again, she could think.

Deaton stepped towards Isaac. "It's difficult to put a timeline on situations like this. I know this is trying, but—"

"Damn right it is! Are we supposed to just—"

Suddenly, Lydia was standing, arms tensed at her sides and fists clenched as she noticed Stiles's hands floating in the tub. "Isaac, stop!" she interrupted, voice cracking as she attempted to shout. _"This isn't helping!"_

Once the words flew out of her mouth, she instantly regretted them. She dropped into her chair, propping her elbows on her knees and concealing her face with her hands. Even though he towered over her in height, when Lydia yelled at Isaac, she caught a glimpse of the frightened little boy that lived inside of him – the boy that had been abused by someone who was supposed to love him. Lydia couldn't help but see the similarity between them, and she remembers wishing she had been more patient. Remorse compiled in her stomach. Isaac had only spoken the truth about what he was feeling. He was just as scared as she was…only _he_ was brave enough to admit it.

The room fell silent, and several minutes went by, but she still hadn't found a solution. It seemed obvious that no amount of quiet was going to help. She needed Stiles. _He is the one who always figures it out._

She heard the light sound of footsteps approaching. Lydia remembers the moment when her shoulders were drenched in unexpected but familiar warmth. She looked up, confirming what she already suspected. Isaac was standing next to her, and he had covered her with Stiles's jacket. Her throat constricted as her hands automatically grasped the fabric, pulling it securely around herself.

"Is it okay if I sit with you?" Isaac asked.

"Sure," she answered softly.

After taking a seat, he bumped her knee with the side of his thigh to draw her attention. "Sorry about before," he offered sheepishly. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm just…"

She turned to him. With his big blue eyes, head full of messy curls, and mouth drooping into a frown, Isaac looked as helpless as she felt.

"Worried about them," she finished for him.

"Yeah."

"I know. I'm sorry too. We're all on edge. I shouldn't have yelled."

"It's alright. This has gotta be harder for you… They're your family."

The loneliness in his tone nipped at her heart. As much as she cared for Allison, Scott, and Stiles, she knew they didn't belong to her. Ever since Isaac had been on his own, they had become an integral part of his life. Without them, he would be lost…just like she would be.

"Isaac, they're your family too."

He gave her a weak smile. "Hmm…"

"What?"

"I was thinking…how different you said my name this time. You know…compared to before…when I was being an ass… It sounded nice… Comforting…"

"You weren't being—"

She halted mid-sentence. Tears clouded her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked them away.

"Lydia, what is it?"

"That's it…"

"What's it?"

"Their names… We need to focus on their names. People are intrinsically linked to their names. Maybe if we focus on that – not just that…but all the things we know about them…maybe it will keep them from…"

She couldn't finish her statement without breaking down, but Isaac seemed to understand.

He relinquished a sigh. "Allison never misses a chance to mention what a genius you are. So…if you think it will work, then I'm willing to try."

Lydia could hear how much he cared for Allison, and it helped because she knew she could trust Isaac to hold onto her. She glanced at Deaton, and he was smiling proudly at them. He moved nearer to Scott and closed his eyes. She relaxed a bit more because she knew Scott was being protected too. When Isaac gingerly enveloped her hand with his, Lydia felt more connected to Allison, and it allowed her to keep all of her energy focused on Stiles.

For the next length of time, she thought of nothing but Stiles. She repeated his name in her mind. Not just Stiles — _Miecyzslaw_ and every version of it, over and over. She could almost hear his voice saying her name in response.

She closed her eyes again…so she could see clearly.

She pictured his face; his soulful brown eyes with gold flecks and the rapid way they blinked after she kissed him, his many smiles...from small and shy...to broad and exuberant, and the constellation of moles that decorated his jawline. She thought of the way his cheeks flushed when he was embarrassed, or angry, or sometimes when she touched him. She could almost feel his hands – their warmth, how they were a little rough and calloused…but always gentle whenever he touched her. She ducked her head and brought the collar of his jacket up to her nose to breathe in his scent. She imagined him sitting beside her, picking her up for school in the Jeep, walking down the hallway with her, borrowing (and never returning) pens from her in class, meeting her by her locker at the end of the school day.

It wasn't difficult to fill time with thoughts of Stiles. She knew so many things about him. _He is named for his maternal grandfather._ _His birthday is April 8th. His favorite color is blue. His prize possession is his Jeep. He plays lacrosse…but his favorite sport is baseball. He has a closet-full of plaid shirts and hoodies. He loves astronomy and solving puzzles. He treats pizza like it classifies as its own food group. He adores French fries, but whenever we share them, he makes sure I get the last one. He can't stand pumpkin pie or licorice, thinks white chocolate is an abomination. He paces when he talks on the phone. He bites his nails when he's frustrated, fidgets when he's anxious, taps his fingers when he's thinking. He always sneezes twice. He hates horror films and loves Star Wars, but his favorite movie is Frequency, and he wasn't ashamed to cry when we watched It's a Wonderful Life together. He's observant…though impatient, but also strong-willed and incredibly bright. He can't refrain from sarcasm, but he never misses a chance to be sweet to me._ The list went on and on…

But still, Lydia knew there was so much more to learn. She needed Stiles to come back, so he could teach her. She wanted more time with him.

Seconds became minutes. Minutes in which she walked countless laps around the room. Minutes in which she sat, then stood still, then sat down again. Those minutes became hours. Each hour that passed brought about a new wave of nerves as well as the ongoing struggle to refocus and remain calm. The cycle repeated…hour after hour…and then…

Lydia remembers the relief she experienced when all three of her friends came out of the water with a gasp.

Her heart was pounding. Stiles's jacket fell behind her as a powerful force propelled her away from her chair…and closer to him.

Scott was the first to speak, while Allison worked to catch her breath. Stiles stood between them, clutching the rim of the tub as he climbed out on unsteady legs. His clothing was clinging to his body, water pouring off him, bare feet clapping against the linoleum as he took a shaky step forward.

She remembers his first words. His first words since he came back to life.

"We passed it. There's — There's a stump…this huge tree. Well, it's not huge anymore. It was cut down. But it's still big though… _very big."_

His teeth were chattering, and his entire body shivered. More than anything, Lydia wanted to rush towards him and lock her arms around him…but she was frozen again; the overwhelming weight of emotion bearing down and trapping her in a state of limbo.

She remembers Stiles's eyebrows arching and jaw slackening with shock when Deaton said that he, Allison, and Scott had been out for sixteen hours. _Sixteen hours_ in which she was pushed past the point of exhaustion as she waited, and wondered, and worried. Sixteen hours when the three people closest to her were unconscious, in a trance-like state, essentially dead.

It was over now. They survived. They all came back. _Stiles came back._ He was breathing again…and Lydia told herself she would have more time with him.

* * *

Not long after, she was seated in a quiet corner of the room. Allison was facing her, kneeling on the floor on top of a grey towel with another covering her shoulders. Lydia remembers the way her best friend huddled close to her, arms folded across Lydia's lap as she towel-dried her hair. With every drop of moisture that Lydia withdrew from the dark brown locks, Allison's natural waves became more defined. Her warmth was gradually being restored; goosebumps on her porcelain skin receding, rose-pink tone highlighting her cheekbones once more. Allison was alive, and by some miracle, she was unharmed. Deaton had already checked her vitals, but it was far more reassuring for Lydia to be able to _feel_ that Allison was improving. Comforting as that was, she couldn't stop wishing for the chance to do the same with Stiles.

Deaton was attending to him, and they were across the room, Stiles with his back to her. She couldn't see his expression or sense his warmth. She couldn't hear his inhales and exhales, determine if there was color in his cheeks, or feel whether he was shivering. Her anxiety was relentless, and she was unable to keep her eyes from glancing in his direction.

"Lydia, what's going on?" Allison asked, her voice still somewhat hoarse.

She startled and tensed. "Huh?"

"Why do you keep looking behind me?"

"I'm not," she lied feebly.

 _"Yes, you are,"_ she insisted, twisting her mouth suspiciously before peering over her shoulder. "Are you—Are you looking at Stiles?"

"What if I was?" Lydia answered, shrugging one shoulder and doing her best to sound casually indifferent.

When Allison's eyebrows arched in response, Lydia quickly worked to deflect.

"Anyway…he's standing under the clock," she evaded, turning away to rummage through her purse for a comb.

Allison pushed her hands into Lydia's thighs. "Come on… _I know you._ Something's up. There's a reason you—" Her mouth formed a perfect O. "Something happened between you two… Didn't it?"

Ignoring the question, Lydia began carefully combing through Allison's hair.

"Lydia... _tell me._ I'm your _best friend._ I have rights."

"Allison, this is hardly the time—"

"Lydia. _Talk,"_ her friend pressed, commanding her attention by skillfully catching her wrist and seizing the comb.

When Allison was determined, there was no way to put her off. Lydia knew it.

 _"Okay,"_ she gritted out. "I—I sort of…kissed him," Lydia admitted, briefly closing her eyes.

She remembers the way Allison clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a dramatic gasp, and the way her expressive brown eyes lit up. After a lengthy pause, Allison's hand finally slid away from her face to reveal her vibrant smile; heart-shaped and framed by two perfect dimples.

"Oh...my god! Lydia..." she whispered through a breath.

Reflexively, she attempted to downplay the significance of what she had confided. "It's not... He was having a panic attack."

Allison grinned, shaking her head in awe. "How did I not see this before?"

"See what?" Lydia asked, heat flourishing in her cheeks.

"You have feelings for him."

"Wha—I..." She might have denied her feelings altogether, but it hurt somewhere deep inside to even consider verbalizing such a falsehood, so Lydia opted for what seemed like a safer alternative. "I mean… Of course, I do. We're...friends."

"I know _that look_ and that is _not_ how a person looks at a friend. You're falling for him..."

Lydia opened and closed her mouth. She was unable to think of another excuse for the countenance of her face – the one that communicated a truth she couldn't and _didn't want_ to hide from Allison.

"Oh... Lydia! I'm so happy!" she said a little too loudly.

 _"Shh… Allison…"_ she hushed her, eyes pleading for discretion.

"Sorry…" she cringed in apology. "But this is _such_ good news. You have to tell him."

"I can't," she responded adamantly as she reached for Allison's forearm.

"Yes, you can."

"No. If I tell him now…it will seem like I'm only saying it because I was scared and—"

"Lydia, he _won't_ think that. He'll be so happy."

"But if—"

"Listen to me. You should at least talk to him. The way things are...you just _never_ know if you're going to get another chance. There are things I wish I had said to my mom...to my dad...to—"

Lydia remembers the way Allison's tearful eyes flashed towards Scott. She didn't have a chance to reply before her friend's quivering voice resumed.

"If you don't say anything...you'll regret it, like I do."

She cupped Allison's face, heart aching with empathy. "Allison, you are going to be able to say everything you want to your dad. We're getting him back."

"I know. I'm just scared," she sighed, blotting her eyes.

"And...when it comes to Scott...maybe you should take your own advice..."

"Who said anything about Scott?"

It was Lydia's turn to call Allison out on her denial. She quirked one side of her mouth disapprovingly.

"Okay, but things are complicated with— Anyway, we're not talking about me and Scott. This is _you and Stiles._ The boy is crazy about you."

"But…he's _so good…_ " She swallowed with difficulty, then lowered her tone to a whisper. "He's so good to me…and I'm just starting to get a hang of this friendship thing. I've never been friends with a guy – not like this. I trust him, and he believes in me…the same way I believe in him. I've never felt this way about anyone else. What if I screw everything up? What if I disappoint him? Allison, I don't…I don't want to lose him."

"Lydia, honey, you won't. Just be honest with him. Be yourself. _You_ are amazing – brilliant and strong…and also fun to be around and fiercely loyal, _and_ …despite the fact that you so stubbornly try to hide it, you have _the biggest heart_ I've ever been lucky enough to come across. Stiles already knows all of this. That's why he's so into you."

She smiled at Allison through tears.

Allison firmly set her hands on Lydia's shoulders, offering a few more words of encouragement. "It will be alright. You can do this. _I know you can."_ Then, she pulled Lydia into a hug.

After a moment, Lydia broke from the embrace to look into her best friend's eyes. "Thank you, Allison."

"You're welcome," she replied, affectionately smoothing a few loose strands of Lydia's hair into place. "You know I love you… Right?"

"Yeah," Lydia answered. "I love you back."

* * *

Minutes later, Lydia crossed the room and stood next to Stiles. He was talking with Scott and Deaton. She remembers how her nerves began to swell when she slid her hand into his. Stiles immediately met her gaze, smiling as he tightened his hand around hers. Just like that, the pressure in her stomach faded and swiftly morphed into the tickle of butterflies.

"Excuse us a sec?" he said politely to Scott and Deaton.

They both nodded as Stiles backed away from them.

Lydia remembers the lack of hesitation in him and the way his thumb repeatedly glided over her skin as she led him to one of the other rooms. She shut the door behind them, wincing at how loudly the metal frame clicked. Her right hand was still linked to his left. She shifted in front of him, teetering on her heels. She remembers the way Stiles sensed her imbalance, intuitively taking her other hand as if he knew the contact would ground her.

"Lydia, what is it?"

She allowed herself a quick inhale. "Are you okay?" she asked as her exhale directly followed.

"Deaton says my vitals are fine."

"But…are you okay?"

"Oh… Yeah… I'll be better when we find my dad, but yeah, I'm fine. What about you? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Her voice sounded much smaller than she intended, and she averted her eyes to the floor, shuddering as she observed his poor bare feet on the cold linoleum.

He let go of one of her hands and tucked his index finger under her chin, coaxing her to face him as he sighed her name. "Lydia…"

His tone was so gentle, concern so palpable, care and affection so present.

And that was it. She lost control.

Her lips trembled and tears started flowing freely. She remembers diving into his arms and letting out a sob.

"Lydia, your dress... I'm still soaking wet."

"I don't care. Stiles, sixteen hours..."

She felt him breathe; his chest rapidly expanding and contracting in sync with hers. She wanted to squeeze him, but she was afraid to hurt him, so she clutched his tee shirt instead, water collecting in her palms and dripping between her fingers. Lydia remembers how Stiles wrapped his arms around her, a little more forcefully than she expected, but she took advantage of the opportunity, releasing his shirt and matching his grip.

"It's okay. It's alright," he crooned.

All the things she wanted to tell him were rushing through her mind. She desperately searched for a starting point, and when she was calm enough to find her voice, she spoke quietly to him.

"You know how sometimes you want to say something…but you can't seem to find the right words?"

"Yeah, I do. It's okay though…you know… You can tell me anything."

Lydia could feel the vibrations of his every syllable matching the pounding beneath her rib cage. The longer Stiles held her, the more she felt at ease.

"I know," she whispered into his shoulder. "It's just… I was so scared. When you were… I kept thinking – what if you didn't know?"

"What if I didn't know what?" he asked, rocking her ever so slightly.

"How much you mean to me?"

"Lydia?" He set his hands on her forearms and backed up enough to look at her.

"Stiles, you—you're so important to me. I'm really glad you're in my life…that we're such good friends. I've never had this before…and I was so worried you didn't know that."

She watched his smile take shape as faint splotches of red tinted his cheeks. She could see that Stiles was happy – and all the nervousness she had endured was suddenly worth it.

"I…uh… I feel the same about you. I've never had anything like this either. It's pretty amazing though… Isn't it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Lydia remembers that when Stiles brought her into his arms again, the burden she had been carrying was lessened. It hadn't completely vanished, but it was easier to bear. There was more she wanted to say, but no words seemed adequate and she thought it better to wait…until she found the right ones. It was enough just to see him look so happy, enough to know that the feelings she did manage to share meant something to him.

"Are you cold at all?"

"Nah… Not one bit," he answered.

Then Stiles did something that made the breath catch in her throat. He tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead for the very first time. It was in that moment that Lydia realized – she was no longer cold either. _Not one bit._ She leaned into him…just a little more…because it felt _so good_ and _so right_.

When his lips left her forehead, their warmth remained.

"Hey, Lydia?"

"Yeah?"

"When I was…you know…under the water… Were you talking to me?"

"No. Not out loud…but I was thinking about you. I was thinking about you the whole time. I thought that maybe…if I could just keep holding onto you…all the things that make you… _you,_ then it would help you find your way back."

"Well, it worked. I heard you. I heard you say my name… Not just Stiles…my first name too. I heard you calling me, and I wasn't cold or afraid 'cause I knew you were waiting for me here."

"Really?" Lydia lifted her head and looked into Stiles's eyes. The mesmerizing light they held had grown brighter…and it felt like it was for her.

He was smiling when he said, "Yeah, and I _really_ wanted to come back…so I could see you again."

And he pulled her back…one more time. _Stiles was alive._ Lydia could feel it – his warmth, his breaths, his beautiful beating heart. She remembers that the next time he spoke her name, it sounded more comforting than it ever had before.

"Lydia?"

"Hmm…"

"I was thinking… When things calm down…we should go get some fries together… I mean, if you want to. My treat?"

"I'd like that," she replied with a smile that she knew he couldn't see…but hoped he could feel.

She was tucked into his arms…and his lips brushed against her forehead for the second time…and she told herself she would have another chance to say more.

* * *

 **Present Day**

A voice is calling to her. Not just any voice – Stiles's voice.

"Lydia... Lydia, can you hear me? Please come back. _Lyds, please."_

When her eyes refocus, she is sitting on the patio with Prada at her feet. Stiles is kneeling next to her, both arms encircling her as he holds her close to his chest. His lips are grazing her forehead, and she hears panic when he speaks.

"Come on… Baby, talk to me."

She wriggles one arm out from beneath the towel she is cocooned in to grasp his shoulder. "Stiles," she exhales.

He startles, then the tension begins to leave his body. "Oh…" he gasps, dipping down to press his cheek against hers. "Are you alright?"

She nods, biting her lip to subdue a sob.

Stiles straightens up, his hands wandering the length of her arms and shoulders before stopping to rest on either side of her face. "I thought... I thought I was losing you." His expression is stricken with pain, eyebrows cinched, tears gathering in his eyes. When he blinks, they spill over his lashes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she tells him.

"Shh... You have nothing to be sorry for. Okay? I just... I got... Lydia..."

He leans closer, until their noses are touching, and his kiss feels different than any of the others he gave her today. It's urgent – like he thinks he might miss the chance if he hesitates any longer.

And it brings something that Lydia has been trying to avoid directly to the forefront of her mind. Something she has scarcely been able to think about, let alone articulate. It's a feeling she has been having; a secret fear. One that reminds her – any moment between them could be their last.

In the two weeks since Stiles came home, Lydia hasn't been able to face it, but now she knows she has to...because _now_ she understands that Stiles feels it too.

Her heart is pounding as she presses more deliberately into him, one hand gliding along his shoulder and around his neck, her fingers digging into the base of his skull to bring him closer.

They break at the same time, each of them letting out a soft moan.

"What happened?" she asks, her mind orbiting the blank space in her recent memory.

"I don't know... We were laughing and splashing around in the water. All of a sudden...you went under. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds. I pulled you up and carried you out here... You were shaking at first...like you were cold, so I wrapped you up. Then you went still. I could feel you breathing though...and I thought you were coming around, but you didn't respond to me for...I dunno...at least five minutes... It felt like forever," he says breathlessly. "Do you remember any of that?"

"No."

"Were you having a premonition?"

"No."

"When we were playing around in the pool... Did I do something...something that scared you or that felt wrong?"

"No. Stiles, no. It was me... When I pushed you under the water...I remembered...last year...the lunar eclipse...the ritual..." she explains, straining over tense vocal cords.

"Oh..." He briefly closes his eyes and lets out a huff. Beads of water drip from the ends of his hair as he drops his head. They rain down on her, blending with her tears when he draws her into a hug. "Come here. I know... I know that's hard to remember."

His voice is gentle, but it carries a great deal of anguish. His hands are trembling, splayed across the skin that is exposed by her backless swimsuit as he massages the length of her spine. Lydia knows he is trying so hard to be steady and calm for her, when he is just as scared as she is…and it makes her love him more.

"Try to focus on the good things," he tells her, "like how you helped save my dad…and Melissa, and Chris…like how that was the night we realized you were my anchor. You pulled me back, Lydia…just like you did two weeks ago. You always pull me back."

"I'm trying, but all I keep thinking is that…I wish I had said more to you that night," she hiccups.

Immediately, Stiles's hands stop shaking, his right maintains its support of her spine and his left moves to her cheek. He puts a little space between them so he can make eye contact. "Hey, listen to me. What you told me – that meant the world to me. You didn't need to say more if you weren't ready."

"But I felt more, and I should have—"

"Lydia, don't—"

"Stiles, _please._ I need to say this."

He quiets and nods a silent okay.

"That night, I wasn't just afraid that I wouldn't be able to pull you back. I was afraid of losing you…the friendship we had…and that fear kept me from telling you how I really felt," she woefully admits, bracing her hands on his chest. "It kept me from telling you that…I was falling in love with you."

Her eyes well up as she watches his widen in comprehension, then quickly soften.

"Lydia…"

"And what if not telling you...kept us apart all that time?"

"You can't put it all on yourself. Okay? You weren't the only one holding back that night. There was more I wanted to say to you, but I was afraid...just like you were – afraid of losing what we had. It was so good between us."

"Yes, it was," she agrees, rubbing her palm over his sternum.

"At least we could both see that. It wasn't all bad that we took it slow... Right? I mean, we were being careful, building something really strong, and it's part of the reason we're here now."

She breathes easier. Somehow, Stiles always manages to help her see things differently, to push away the darkness and warm her with his light.

"You're right. Of course, you are. There's something else though...something that's been on my mind...and I think yours too...for a while, but neither of us have been able to say it out loud."

He grips one of her hands, his thumb continually rolling over her knuckles. "What's that?"

"The fact that we are both terrified of losing each other. We've been dancing around the issue ever since you came home. Am I wrong?"

"No, you aren't," he concedes, eyes flicking to their joined hands. "I am. I'm terrified of losing you…so much that…"

"Go ahead…" she leads.

"So much that…just now, I nearly went out of my mind. I didn't know whether you were in some kind of fugue state or if there was something medically wrong with you. Lydia, I…"

"I know. We've both come so close…so many times…and _still_ we kept making the same mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"We kept convincing ourselves that we would always have another chance to tell each other everything we feel…but the truth is – we never know how much time we are going to have with each other. No one does. Anything could happen."

"Lydia, I don't even want to think about that."

"Neither do I, but we can't pretend that our lives are simple, that we aren't at risk more than most people. I don't want us to be scared all of the time either, so maybe…maybe if we talk about it, we won't be so afraid." She shifts closer to him. "Stiles, you being gone…the memories…they've made me realize how important it is that we say how we feel…as often as possible. I don't want to hold back my feelings for you, and I don't want you to think you have to either. You're so good at expressing how you feel, but sometimes…I can tell that you want to say more, and you stop yourself."

He gnaws on his lip. "I… There are so many things I want to say, but I don't want to push too hard…and I don't always know where to start or when's the right time."

"I think whenever you feel it…that's what makes it the right time – like before, when you said…"

"That you're the love of my life," he finishes for her.

"Yes."

"It kind of just came out…but I meant it. I've wanted to tell you so many times."

He glances down timidly, breaths shallow, cheeks deepening in hue, and there is such raw vulnerability in him that it pierces Lydia's heart.

"Stiles, look at me," she directs, firmly grabbing hold of his chin. When he complies, she continues. _"I promise,_ you aren't going to scare me away if you tell me how you feel. I can _never_ hear you say that you love me enough times."

His eyes take on a glossy shine, his gaze filled with intensity and awe, like she just handed him the whole world. "In that case, I'll say it again. Lydia, _you_ are the love of my life."

She smiles through the powerful current of emotion that courses through her veins, making her feel more alive and more in love with each passing second. "You're the love of my life too. I need you to know that. When you said that I am drawn to you—"

"Lyds, I only meant—"

"Shh… I know what you meant," she assures him, nudging his nose with hers, then sneaking a quick kiss. "It's not like it isn't true – I _am_ drawn to you. But I hope you also know, it's so much more than that. I'm with you because I _want_ to be with you, and I want to be with you because of who you are. I love you, Stiles. I love the person that you were in my memory and who you are right now, in this moment. I already love the person you are going to be tomorrow, and I am _never_ going to stop feeling this way. You make me so happy...more than I ever thought I could be, and you help me see things in a different way. When we're together, I feel like anything is possible and...and I just want to make you as happy as you make me."

"You do, Lydia. I've never been happier. Being with you... It's all I ever wanted, and so much more."

A few droplets escape the corners of his eyes, and Lydia traces the tracks they leave with her fingertips. He catches her hand and reverently touches his lips to the inside of her wrist.

"And I don't just mean these past two weeks," he elaborates. "You make me look forward to waking up in the morning so I can spend time with you, so I can hold you, watch you smile, hear you laugh. I think about all of the things we're going to do together, all the things between us that no one else understands, all the things that make us… _Us_ …and it's so amazing to me…to have this kind of connection with you."

"I feel the same way."

She kisses him slowly this time, relishing in the sensation of his lips against hers until her lungs force her to come up for air. Then she nestles her head on his shoulder, and he tightens his arms around her.

"You were right," he tells her. "We needed to talk about this. I mean, I'm still going to worry about you – like non-stop...but I feel relieved that we got it all out in the open."

"Yeah, me too."

"We should go inside...get you dried off," he suggests.

"I'm okay. Really. Could we just stay here for a while?"

"Yeah. Sure." He kisses her forehead, then looks behind them. Prada has resumed a furious confrontation with her new toy. "Guess she plans on hogging the big lounge chair all day. I bet we can squeeze onto the smaller one though."

Lydia laughs, wiping the last of her stray tears. "That's fine with me. The closer we are, the better."

Stiles gets up and reaches for her. "I couldn't agree more," he acknowledges with a signature crooked grin as he pulls her to her feet.

Together, they snuggle comfortably into the cushioned chair, where they devote their time to exchanging sweet words, between kisses and caresses, all the while bathed in the bright light of a sunny afternoon.


	7. A Spark

You reach up  
I'll reach down  
and there'll be the pull,  
magnetic, steady  
until fingertips  
and fingertips  
graze and glance  
and intertwine  
like rope made strong.

What will be  
when these palms  
touch?  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

Lydia is with Stiles in the garage beside his house on a Monday. The hood of the Jeep is propped open, and Stiles is crouched underneath it as he diligently works to repair the engine…again.

Her hands are clutched around a cup of iced coffee, legs gently dangling as she sits atop the dusty workbench that is positioned a couple of feet from where he is standing. The wood is dry and uneven, its grains beginning to imprint into the underside of her thighs. As Lydia carefully shifts to adjust her denim cut-offs, she watches Stiles.

When she arrived, he was already at work. In the two hours since, he has burned through two bagels and a large iced coffee of his own. His white tee shirt and jeans are streaked with motor oil, several smudges running up his forearms and scattered across his jawline as well. With tense shoulders and his hands braced against the frame of the Jeep, Stiles stares down at the radiator hose. By the way he starts to pick at the layers of Duct tape that surround it, Lydia can tell that he is losing his patience. He huffs out a sigh, then swipes the beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm, leaving another trail of grease above his left eyebrow.

The clock on the wall indicates that it's just after eleven in the morning, but already the temperature is uncomfortably hot. Even with the doors wide open, the garage seems to be trapping heat like an oven. Lydia's mouth twists into a pout as she glances outside. It's one of those days when rainfall is inevitable. The air is so humid that she can feel a layer of moisture collecting on her skin. The heaviness in the atmosphere is palpable, adding pressure to an already stressful situation.

Seeking relief, Lydia sets down her cup and touches her cold damp fingertips to the back of her neck and shoulders. Then, she dries her hands on the hem of her olive-green tank top, shapes her hair into a high bun, and secures it with a clip.

Within minutes, the space grows darker and darker, until she has to reach behind her to flip on the overhead lights so Stiles can still see what he is doing.

"Thanks, Lyds," she hears him say.

When he lifts is head to look at her and flashes a quick smile, her heart skips a few beats and her lips instantly curl upward. Keeping her eyes on him, she picks up her coffee cup and holds it out.

"Want some?" she offers.

He leans closer and takes a long sip from the straw. Then, before returning to the tiresome task ahead of him, Stiles bows his head to tack a kiss on her thumb.

Lydia's stomach pools with heat. Not the oppressive type of heat that is currently surrounding her. A welcome and comforting one that fills her, makes her feel wanted, appreciated, treasured. It's an overwhelming feeling to be loved so much, to know that no matter how irritated or discouraged he might be, Stiles always takes a moment to connect with her, never leaves her wondering if he would rather be alone just then. She briefly closes her eyes and makes a silent promise to do the same for him.

Over the next few minutes, the wind strengthens, rattling the doors and agitating the leaves in the trees. The rest of the world grows quiet – birds have stopped chirping, squirrels have sought shelter in the trees, not even a bee or a butterfly anywhere in view. It's no surprise when the sky finally opens up, and large droplets begin to smack against the pavement, slow at first…then faster and faster. Lydia observes the way they descend at an angle, moving in a westward direction. The ground is so hot that some of the raindrops seem to be converting into steam as soon as they make contact with the ground. Others are soaking into the cement, skidding down the length of the driveway, splashing the garage doors, or dripping off the edges of the pitched roof.

A few muffled curses reach her ears, and Lydia turns her attention back to Stiles.

She hates this. She hates to see him struggling to hang onto something that is so precious to him. She knows what it feels like, and it's one of the worst kinds of pain.

"How are you doing?" she asks, her voice just loud enough to carry above the repetitive sound of the rainstorm.

"Ugh… Not great," he admits with a frustrated sigh.

"Can I do anything?"

"Yeah. Would you hand me the torque wrench?"

"With the half-inch or the three-eighths socket?"

"Uh…the half-inch… Should be in the top tray of the tool box."

Lydia leans to her left, supporting herself with one hand and stretching towards the tool box with the other. The careworn case is battered on the edges, and a good portion of the original black enamel has flaked off over the years, but the monogrammed initials "CS" at the center are still clear and present. With a heavy heart, she lovingly runs her fingertips along the embossed letters before unhinging the latch and lifting the lid. While Lydia digs through the pile of screwdrivers, wrenches, and bolts it houses, she can't help thinking of its previous owner, and her throat clenches.

She blinks back a few tears. "Got it," she manages to say as she locates the wrench and passes it to Stiles.

Their fingers connect over the cool metal, and he whispers a thank you. When his eyes meet hers, Lydia can see the pain they hold, and she knows why. It's because he is wondering how many more times he will be able to reassemble the Jeep. He is wondering how many more months, weeks, or days he will be able to hold onto this precious tangible link to his mother before he has to say good-bye to her…all over again.

Lydia can't stay put. She wants to comfort Stiles, so she straightens up with the intention of hopping off the bench to get closer to him. Her hand slides across the rough wooden surface, and she feels a sharp pinch.

"Ah…" she winces, sucking in a breath through her teeth.

Stiles immediately turns to her, brows cinched together in concern. "What?"

She checks her hand. There is a dark sliver of wood lodged in her fingertip and a small amount of blood collecting around the puncture it made in her skin.

"Nothing… It's just a splinter," she answers flippantly.

He moves to stand in front of her, setting the wrench inside the tool box with a clank. "Let me see."

"It's alright. I'll get it out later."

"Lydia, let me see."

She reluctantly shows Stiles her hand while mentally rolling her eyes at herself for drawing his focus to her.

He grimaces, caressing her palm with his thumb as he looks at her index finger. "It's pretty deep. You can't leave that 'til later. Hang on a sec…"

Knowing there will be no way to dissuade him, she doesn't resist any further. Stiles makes no secret of the fact that he always wants to take care of her. She has never had someone care about her the way he does – so completely. If she is honest with herself, she loves it. She loves him, and she wants to take care of him too.

Stiles walks to the sink, scrubs his hands, and dries them on a fresh towel as he rejoins her at the workbench. He hooks the towel through the belt-loop of his jeans and reaches above her head for the First Aid kit. Beneath the smell of motor oil and the antibacterial soap he just used, Lydia still finds the crisp scent of pine needles and clean cotton – _his scent._

He is in the process of locating the tweezers and some antiseptic wipes from the kit, but with their bodies so close, she can't help herself. She presses into him and kisses his neck, smiling at the way his pulse jumps under her lips and how he turns his face into hers like a magnet. His lips merely skim the rim of her ear because she is buried so deep in his neck, but she can feel his affection all of the way to her toes. Eventually, she pries her lips away from his skin and looks up.

His eyes are soft but pensive. "I know a few tricks for getting these out…" Stiles tells her. Then he takes her hand, his touch gentle and his tone low when he continues, "I got my fair share of splinters, sophomore year…sitting on the bench during lacrosse games…" he explains…and Lydia remembers.

 _She remembers the day before the championship game…_

* * *

She was in the hallway outside Marin Morrell's office, wondering why she had arrived fifteen minutes early for another useless appointment with the guidance counselor. As Lydia leaned against the wall with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, she observed the stream of sunlight coming through the windows. It highlighted the row of empty chairs which lined the corridor, emphasizing their drab pea-green color as well as the darkness of the shadows they cast on the floor. She remembers that she was checking her watch for the second time in less than one minute, when Morrell's door opened, and a familiar figure stepped through it, closing the door behind him.

His head was ducked, dark brown hair closely cropped, fair-skinned cheeks and jawline dotted with moles. He wore a grey henley shirt, jeans, and sneakers. A large duffel bag, tagged with the number 24, was slung over one shoulder. He carried a lacrosse stick and a worried expression. _Stiles._

She remembers that he almost walked past her, but that before she could lift her voice to call his name, a pair of warm brown eyes met hers, lashes quickly fluttering in surprise.

"Hey… Lydia," he greeted her.

"Hi."

"Are you waiting for Ms. Morell?"

"Yeah…mandatory appointment," she griped, rolling her eyes. "You know…'cause of what happened with Matt."

He nodded, looking thoughtfully at her while nibbling on his lower lip. "Yeah, me too."

She debated whether to ask how his session went, but everything about his body language told her that it hadn't been particularly helpful or enlightening. In the hopes of cheering Stiles up, she opted to tease him a little instead.

"Do you always carry that with you to counseling sessions?" she questioned, referring to his lacrosse gear.

He screwed up his mouth but when she gave him a small smile, he returned it.

"Typically…no. I was planning on dropping it off in the locker room, but maintenance is in there…so it's closed."

"Where are you headed now?"

"To the Jeep… I forgot my history notes."

She had seen Stiles apprehensive and out of sorts before, but this day felt different. For some reason she couldn't explain, Lydia didn't want him to leave without her. For some reason, she thought that spending a few more minutes together might help them both.

She glanced at her watch again. "My appointment's not for another thirteen minutes. Mind if I walk with you?"

One side of his mouth rose a bit higher. "No, not at all. Come on…"

Lydia remembers the way he transferred his lacrosse stick to his left hand and politely extended his right hand in front of her as if to say… _you first._

Pursing her lips, she let her arms relax at her sides and began to move forward.

The heels of her black boots clicked too loudly in the quiet hallway, which made her tense again, but occasionally Stiles's elbow would bump into her arm and she could breathe a little easier. Lydia has no recollection of their conversation as they walked towards the exit. She only remembers that they were together, and that every time her eyes searched for his, Stiles was already looking directly at her.

At the end of the hallway, they came to the pair of steel doors that led to the parking lot. That's when she felt it. _His hand…_ just barely grazing her shoulder blade.

"I'm parked over there," he said, motioning to their left.

They continued, and his hand remained – not quite touching her...sort of hovering behind her…guiding her. Lydia remembers that when she would slow her steps, his hand would connect with her back, and then he would slow his steps to match hers. She marveled at the way they were so effortlessly falling into sync. _It felt really nice._

Outside, the sky was bright, and the air smelled like spring. With Stiles next to her, Lydia's anxiety about meeting with Ms. Morrell was rapidly fading.

Just when she was getting accustomed to the cadence of their steps, they reached the Jeep and his hand dropped away. The end to their silent exchange abruptly filled her stomach with an unexpected sensation of disappointment. Hearing the small sigh that escaped his slightly parted lips, made Lydia wonder if Stiles felt it too.

He opened the passenger's side door and set his lacrosse gear inside before gathering his history notes from the seat. When he backed up to close the door and turned towards her, Lydia remembers getting the distinct impression that he was even more troubled than she initially suspected. Stiles had suddenly gone quiet and he was rolling his notebook up into a tube, his eyes fixed on some point on the ground near her feet.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?" he answered, lifting his head to look at her when she spoke to him, _like always._

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Uh…yeah, I guess…" his voice trailed off as he scratched at the base of his skull. "I'm just a little nervous…"

"About tomorrow?"

His eyes widened. "Huh?"

"The game…"

"Oh that… No. I'm pretty sure I won't be playing."

"Why not? It's the championship game… You're part of the team."

"Yeah…technically…but…"

"What?"

"I suck," Stiles said flatly.

 _I suck._ He sounded so defeated. Lydia had never heard him speak like that. Sure, he might utter a witty, self-deprecating quip every now and again, but that was just his way – she could always tell that he was joking. Right now, however, there was nothing amusing about the way he articulated those words, and they nudged at her heart in a fierce way. She couldn't just let it go. She couldn't let him talk like that. _It wasn't true._

 _"No,_ you don't."

He raised his eyebrows and gave her an upside-down smile. "Coach says I do…so…I spend most games sitting on the bench… Got the splinters to prove it," he elaborated, setting his notebook on the hood of the Jeep and showing her his hands.

Without thinking, she clasped her fingers around his right wrist, pulling it towards her. She remembers the way her hand disappeared when she moved it beneath his, supporting its weight while she prudently examined it. There were a series of tiny nicks and puncture marks, some further along in the healing process than others.

Stiles was completely still, but Lydia could feel his eyes on her. She imagined them, curious and patient…probably holding a fair amount of pain too – the kind that it hurt for her to see. So, she didn't look at him just then. Instead, she placed her other palm on top of his and held it there. It felt warm and powerfully familiar.

"He's wrong," Lydia remarked with certainty.

After a short pause, she slid her hand over Stiles's until their digits were aligned. Then by some means of unspoken communication, their fingers hooked together – his curling up, hers curling down. She remembers that when the pad of his thumb brushed against her knuckle, it made her feel brave enough to look into his eyes. They were almost exactly how she imagined, curious and patient…but she didn't see pain. She saw light. A bright golden light that radiated in every direction.

"Stiles, he's wrong," she repeated. _"In fact,_ I have a feeling that you will play tomorrow… _and_ that you'll be great," she told him, squeezing his hand a little tighter before rushing to finish her statement. "And by now, you know…I'm hardly ever wrong."

Lydia remembers the sound of his breathy laugh. She remembers the sight of his smile – shy and a little bit awestruck, but mostly appreciative and filled with honesty. His cheeks began to color, and she felt a rush of excitement in her body as she hid her nerves behind a small smile.

When she looked down at their hands another time, she caught a glimpse of her watch. "I better get going… Ms. Morell will be waiting."

Their hands hesitantly unraveled as Stiles responded, "Okay."

"Guess I'll see you later then..."

"You coming to the game?" he asked, resting his side against the Jeep.

"Yeah, I'll be the one in the ivory sweater…" she informed him, "cheering you on from the bleachers."

His smile broadened. "Thanks, Lydia."

The ache in her chest was lessening, quickening beats inside soothing it away. Before her brain could catch up with her heart, she stepped forward and kissed Stiles on the cheek…for the very first time. It was quick, and either he leaned into her or she had pressed a little harder than she intended, but when Lydia's lips collided with his cheek, it felt like more than a friendly gesture. She remembers a flicker of heat beneath her ribs – a spark – one that scared her and thrilled her in equal measure.

She pulled back and whispered, "Good luck, Stiles," then swiftly turned to leave.

As she walked to the school, she was a little bit dazed and more than a little unsure of what had come over her. _Don't look back,_ she told herself as she clutched the door handle.

But something deeper, something…instinctive, made her want to turn around. So she did.

Stiles was still propped against the Jeep. Even from a distance she could see him smiling at her, and it made her smile too, in spite of herself. She hesitated for another moment, then pulled open the door and stepped into the building.

On her way to Ms. Morrell's office, Lydia remembers wondering if she had done something wrong…crossed a line. Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe there was no right or wrong – just…one choice or the other. Maybe she shouldn't over-analyze it. After all, it might never happen again. She couldn't be sure of any of it.

What she did know was that she cared about Stiles, and he cared about her too. He had made that obvious to her on more than one occasion.

What she did know was that there was something about Stiles that made it _feel_ right.

And maybe, just maybe, that was all that mattered.

* * *

 **Present Day**

The next thing Lydia is aware of is Stiles's touch. He is gingerly applying antibiotic ointment to her finger, which has already been relieved of the splinter. After peeling away the paper from a band-aid, he carefully secures it around her fingertip.

"Is it okay?... Does it hurt?" he asks, bringing her bandaged finger to his lips and tapping it with two light kisses.

"Not anymore," she replies softly, sliding her hand to his cheek – the same spot where she kissed him more than two years ago.

"I'm sorry about this. I've been meaning to sand this thing for a long time," he says remorsefully while tapping on the workbench.

Lydia gives Stiles a kiss to stop him from gnawing on his bottom lip, then takes the cloth that is suspended from the waistband of his jeans. "Stiles, it's alright. You can't protect me from everything you know," she tells him as she erases the traces of sweat and smudges of motor oil from his forehead and jaw.

"I'm allowed to try though… Aren't I?"

He tucks a few errant strands of hair behind her ear, then sets his hands on her hips. She feels his love so strongly that it makes her dizzy, so she nestles her head on his shoulder and pulls him a little closer. The rain is still pouring down but it's not as dark as it was before. Lydia focuses on the sensation of his chest expanding and contracting against hers. She could stay like this for hours – just the two of them, storm outside, calm inside, comfortable simmering heat between them.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm…"

"What about me?... Can I try to protect you from the things that hurt you?"

He touches her face, and she lifts her head.

"How much longer are you going to be able to do this?" she asks tenderly.

She can tell he knows what she means when he tilts his head down slightly and begins poking the inside of his bottom lip with his tongue.

It takes a minute for him to respond, his voice cracking over the words, "I can't give up."

"I know that," she assures him while rubbing his back. "I don't want you to give up. You love this Jeep, and I love it too. We have a lot of important memories tied to it…like when you told me you love me…or when we talked to each other from across two different dimensions…and there's also the first time I kissed your cheek… Remember?"

He presses his lips to her temple and lets them linger on her skin while he recalls, "Sure, I do. It was sophomore year…the day before of the championship game. We were standing on the passenger's side, and I was leaning on the door. It's a good thing too…or I'd probably have fallen over."

Lydia tries to exhale, but it comes out in a faint quiver, influenced by the tempest of emotion that Stiles incites. She fears that she is about to lose her train of thought when he tightens his arms around her, and she steadies.

"I knew you were hurting that day, but I didn't know how to help you."

"Yes, you did," he says firmly. "You told me you believed in me. And the next night, at the game…you showed me too. When I looked up and saw you in the bleachers, beautiful as ever, smiling at me… Lyds, I may never be able to describe what that felt like, but I can tell you that it stayed with me, and it helped me get through things that were way more complicated and frightening than that game."

Eyes starting to mist, she speaks to him. "I want to help you now too. I still believe in you. I know you can fix that engine…and it will be fine for a while. But it's old, and it's going to give out again. Stiles, I want you to be safe, and I don't want you to have to work so hard just to keep it running…so… I've been doing some research…" She glides her hands to the front of his torso and smooths them over his tee shirt. "There's a place in San Francisco that does complete engine rebuilds…even on a 1980 CJ5…"

He gives her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "That's a really nice idea…but it's gotta cost _at least_ three thousand dollars."

"Actually, it's closer to four…" she admits with a grimace.

His eyes widen. "There's no way I can afford it."

"Yes, there is."

"Lyd—

"Babe, just hear me out... Okay? My grandmother set up a savings account for me. There's more than enough to cover the cost. Let me pay for the rebuild."

Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, his parted lips trembling mere inches from hers. When his lids flutter open, his lashes are damp and shiny. He cups her face in both of his hands. "Lydia, that's _incredibly_ generous. I can't even tell you what it means to me that you would offer…but it's too much."

"It's not too much. Not for you," she insists, gripping his tee in her fists. "If I can't use the money to help the most important person in my life…then what good is it?"

He moves his hands to her wrists and attempts to interrupt her plea, but Lydia continues talking.

"And I'm not being completely selfless… It's as much for me as it is for you. I want you to have the Jeep for as long as possible…but it hurts me to see you stressing like this, and I don't want the constant threat of it breaking down hanging over our heads. Think of it as an investment – in our future. Stiles, please let me do this… _for us._ "

He leans his forehead against hers and pushes out a breath that gusts along her arms and her thighs, sending little shock-waves of warmth throughout her body. "San Francisco…huh?"

His voice is soft and humble, and she reduces hers to match it.

"Yeah. It's only a two-hour drive from here. Once you get the Jeep fixed, we just need it to hold on long enough to get there. I talked to one of the mechanics yesterday. He says it usually takes three days to do the rebuild. I know they'll take really good care of it. My cousin recommended them. He had his '67 Impala rebuilt there. It's his baby…he would never leave it with anyone, unless he was convinced they were going to treat it as well as he does."

Lydia repositions her hands on Stiles's shoulders. As she gently massages his muscles, she can feel the tension gradually leave him.

"Think about it…" she coaxes. "It could be like a mini vacation for us…hopefully, the first of many. Just you and me…away from Beacon Hills…waking up together every morning...spending the entire day together…falling asleep in each other's arms every night."

"That does sound amazing…" he agrees, arching back to look at her.

"Is that a yes?"

"On one condition…"

Lydia raises an eyebrow.

"You'll let me pay you back."

"Stiles—"

"At least half, Lyds. I want… I _need_ this to be something we did together."

"Okay," she nods fervently. "I understand."

"I mean…it will take years…decades most likely…maybe forever…but I promise, I'm gonna pay my share…no matter how long it takes."

"I'm good with it taking forever," she beams, excited smile taking shape on her mouth.

He smiles too…and this time, it reaches his eyes.

"So…when should we do this?" he asks, ticking his head towards the calendar that hangs on the wall behind her.

She twists around to look with him. "How soon do you think you can get it running?"

"Um…the new radiator hose I ordered is supposed to come today…so maybe another day or two."

"I'll have to call ahead and give the shop some notice. So…how about…the end of next week? Maybe, the twenty-first through the twenty-fourth," she suggests.

She feels Stiles drop a few kisses on her shoulder as she points at the date with her bandaged finger. Then his hand covers hers, long digits and warm palm perfectly molding themselves around hers.

"Alright. Sounds good."

She turns around to face him. "You know…it just so happens…the Mets are playing the Giants that weekend."

"And you know that because…"

She smacks her lips shut, blush rising in her cheeks.

"Lydia…you little vixen! You were going to try to bribe me… Weren't you?" he grins.

"If it came to it…" she confesses through a giggle. "I mean… _I hoped_ that the prospect of us spending three days alone together would be enough to convince you, but it's always good to have a plan B in place."

Stiles throws his head back, filling the space with the beautiful sound of his laughter. "And in _what universe_ would a baseball game be a more convincing bargaining chip than having _you_ all to myself for three whole days and three whole nights?"

She slides her arms around his neck, playfully combing through the ends of his hair with her fingertips. "Well…I know how you love your Mets…" she teases.

"True… _but_ …I don't love anything more than I love you."

The rain has slowed to a lazy pace, but Lydia's heart accelerates when she whispers, "I don't love anything more than _you_ either."

It takes less than a second for him to puddle into her; his hands wandering along the sides of her rib cage then closing around her waist, his lips finding hers as she wraps her legs around his body, so he can carefully lift her off the workbench.

When Stiles sets her down beside the Jeep, Lydia kisses him on the cheek; full of intent, full of passion. _This time,_ she is sure that he is leaning into her. _This time,_ she feels an even more intense spark – but it doesn't scare her in the slightest, and she doesn't pull away. _This time,_ she knows nothing could be more right than showing Stiles how she feels about him.

 _This time_ , she knows there will be many more kisses to come…


	8. I've Got Scars

I wrapped around  
and around  
and around you;  
strong arms  
holding you in,  
holding you together,  
until the shaking  
stopped.  
Tied up in me  
until you knew  
soothing,  
until you knew  
I would never leave you  
alone.  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

They are huddled together on the comfy sofa that resides in the Stilinski living room. Stiles is sitting with Lydia's legs stretched across his lap. His left arm is draped around her shoulders, fingertips lightly grazing the sensitive skin on the inside of her elbow. Her stomach flutters at the contact, and she rests her head on his bicep.

It's late afternoon, but with all of the curtains drawn and the shades pulled down, the room is so dark that it might as well be midnight. In other words, it's the perfect setting to binge watch episodes of all the British crime dramas they have been recording.

While the opening titles of _Endeavour_ are flashing, Lydia's eyes keep wandering to Stiles. The light from the television is illuminating his face. It carves out his profile; the angles of his cheekbones and jawline, slope of his nose, and sweep of dense lashes that shade his eyes.

It's beautiful to see him like this. She can tell that he is already captivated, and she can't wait to watch his expressions change as he spots clues throughout the episode; his mind artfully storing them so he can gradually connect each piece of the puzzle. She loves to witness that magical moment when Stiles solves the mystery…well before the big reveal at the end.

Lydia runs her hand through his hair, playing with the crop of silky strands until the left side of his mouth elevates. He sneaks his opposite arm beneath the blanket that covers them to massage her calf. As he gently kneads his thumb into her soleus muscle, she lets out a soft moan of appreciation that makes him smile even bigger.

Cool air is briskly flowing down from the air conditioning vent, and her uncovered feet start to feel cold. Determined to remain in the cozy little nook she has nestled into, Lydia wiggles her toes for a few seconds hoping to revive them. When Stiles glides his hand past her ankle, his palm reaching the arch of her right foot, she realizes that he is even more aware of her than she already thought. He reacts to the frigid temperature of her skin, sucking in half of a breath through puckered lips. Then, he adjusts the blanket to cover both of her feet and runs his knuckles over top to help warm them. Lydia snuggles closer…and she remembers.

 _She remembers the night Stiles saved her from Eichen House._

* * *

She was sitting on a steel table in Deaton's clinic. It was the middle of the night, and though the room was dimly lit, her eyes were clearly focused on a fixed point, a bright spot, her touchstone – _Stiles._

And he was looking back at her.

Lydia remembers the way his eyes glistened and how his skin glowed in moonlight that shone through broken windows. Windows that had been shattered by the vibrations of her scream.

"I'm not paying for the windows," he joked, gesturing towards them with his thumb…and she smiled through tears.

Shortly after, she remembers the sound of her mother's voice. "We should get you to the hospital," Natalie said, as she relaxed her hold on Lydia.

Before her mother finished her sentence, Stiles had returned to Lydia's side. Her eyes followed his every move. She noticed the bits of glass that skidded across the floor when they collided with his sneakers. She observed the way the fabric of his clothes responded to him; grey tee shirt and red pants shifting over his body, plaid shirt flowing behind him like a cape. She stared at his hands, _his beautiful hands,_ as they rose to find hers. She felt their warmth as each of his fingers locked tightly around hers. She watched as sparkling particles fell from the sleeves of her robe and listened to them clink onto the table when she pulled Stiles closer.

"I'm not going to the hospital. How are we supposed to explain—" she choked, words fracturing with emotion at the thought of what had been done to her. She swallowed thickly as Stiles's thumbs stroked the backs of her hands. "There's nothing they can do for me anyway," she finished.

"Lydia—" her mother began.

" _No, Mom,"_ she interrupted with an edge to her tone. "I'm not spending another night… I just want to sleep in my own bed."

Her refusal was trailed by the sound of a sigh. "Okay. Let's go home."

When she felt her mother's hand behind her shoulder, Lydia tensed. She remembers wanting to say _Stiles, will you take me home?_ Instead, she was only able to pronounce one word.

"Stiles…" she gasped, lifting her gaze from his hands...which were still linked with hers, to his eyes…which were patiently waiting to meet hers.

Relief set in when his expression told her that she didn't need to say more. _Stiles always understands._

He stopped nibbling on his lower lip to assert, "Of course I will."

"Stiles is going to take me home," she informed her mother, keeping her eyes on him.

She felt her mother's hand press into her shoulder blade in reluctance, then drop away in quiet acceptance.

"Here, Ms. Martin," Deaton called, "let me show you how to proceed with Lydia's treatment. There's a salve that will reduce the risk of infection as well as facilitate healing and…"

Lydia let the hum of their voices fade into the background. All she could focus on was Stiles. He squeezed her hands another time before releasing them, then took the keys from his pocket and tossed them across the room to Scott.

"You mind?" he asked his best friend in their usual verbal shorthand.

"Not at all. I'll be out front," Scott answered, keys almost inaudibly connecting with his palm as he caught them. He passed by the table, offering a reassuring smile on his way out the door.

Once she and Stiles were alone, Lydia felt herself sway with dizziness. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her.

"It's okay," he soothed.

Her eyes started to mist, shiver of weary emotion tearing through her, but he kept her close to him; safe, _tethered._

"It's okay," he repeated. "I've got you."

Stiles continued to comfort her with words and touches. She remembers that he never raised his volume above a whisper, like he knew that every sound echoed in her mind as loudly as the crack of a ricocheting bullet.

He held her until she steadied. Then, as if he could sense the storm dissipating, Stiles angled back to look at her, cupping her cheek in his hand. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah."

Lydia was suddenly aware of her bare feet. They were cold. With her legs outstretched in front of her, she could see that they were dirty and a bit bruised too. Stiles gingerly guided her legs over the edge of the table, but the path to the door seemed like an obstacle course, fragments of glass and debris everywhere. As if he could read her mind, he extended his arms towards her.

She smiled, fighting another upsurge of tears as she slid her arms around his neck. She remembers his cheek grazing against hers as he inched closer and carefully lifted her from the table. He carried her into the hallway and through the front entrance, where Scott was holding the door aside for them.

Outside, the Jeep was already running, its engine idling and bright headlights cutting through pitch darkness. The driver's side door was open – waiting for them.

Stiles set Lydia on the back seat. Rather than walk to the other side of the truck, he simply climbed over her, positioning himself directly next to her and opening his arms once more. Without hesitation, she drew her legs up onto the seat and curled into him. She felt a twinge below her ribs when he thoughtfully tucked the fabric of her robe around her feet and ran his knuckles over top to help warm them. Every move Stiles made invited her nearer and nearer. Lydia nestled her head into the crook of his neck and slipped her hands in between his flannel and tee shirt. It felt like ages since they had been so close, and she had been aching for the contact.

Seconds later, Scott took his place in the driver's seat, mindful to shut the door as noiselessly as possible behind him. He reversed onto the main road, then drove to her house without a word.

As Lydia sat with Stiles, she remembers being fully aware that every muscle in her body was beginning to relax…except for her heart, which was rapidly pumping in her chest. She could feel Stiles's heart too, each of his beats an answer to every silent cry she made for him in the past weeks. She wanted to talk to him, but she couldn't find words that encompassed even a fraction of what she felt in that moment, so she closed her eyes. Stiles didn't speak either, but the way his lips kept grazing her forehead and the way he continually twirled the damp ends of her hair between his fingers spoke volumes. Without uttering a sound, Stiles was telling her that he missed her…just as much as she missed him. _She knew it._

* * *

Eventually, Scott turned into the driveway alongside her house and slowed the Jeep to a stop. The door creaked open and he promptly hopped out to help her.

Lydia stood on the cold stone path. Looking up at the house she lived in, she realized it had never seemed so unfamiliar, so dark, so…big. With Scott's assistance, she took a few cautious steps forward with her hands braced on his elbows until Stiles was beside her again.

"You okay?" Scott checked, his eyebrows cinched together with concern.

Her whole body ached, and the left side of her head was throbbing, but she nodded. She was alive and her two best friends were with her. What else could she hope for?

The boys slowly walked her to the porch, where Scott kept hold of her waist as Stiles unlocked the front door. The trio entered the house, and Scott flicked on the lights before standing in front of her.

"Are you going to stay a while," Lydia asked.

"Nah… You need to get some rest. Anyway, you're in good hands," he noted, looking at Stiles, "and—"

Before he could finish his statement, she understood. "Kira… You need to see her."

"Yeah."

"Is she okay? That was her…wasn't it? The brown-out…"

"It was. She's okay… Worried about you though. She must have sent me at least ten texts while I was waiting for you earlier."

Lydia exhaled a light breathy laugh. "Will you tell her that I miss her…and that I'm so grateful?"

"Sure," he smiled, hugging her close. "And we'll come by later to see how you're doing and drop off the Jeep. Okay?"

He held her for an extended pause, and when he let go, all of her pain was gone.

"Scott, you didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

"Thank you…for everything," she said with a quiver.

He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Lydia, it's what we do… Right?"

"Yeah…still… Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She remembers that as soon as Scott's hands left her shoulders, Stiles's arms were there to support her… _like always._ She leaned into him, reassured by the fact that she could rely on him so completely. Together they watched Scott head back to the Jeep and drive away.

When the taillights were beyond their view, Stiles secured the front door and led her towards the staircase. The mere sight of it halted her progression. She looked reluctantly from its imposing stature to Stiles. _Where there always so many steps?_

"We'll take it slow. Okay?"

"Okay," she sighed.

They took a few strides forward before he paused and moved in front of her, tugging at the front of her robe. "Maybe you should ditch this first. It's kind of…"

"Long…cumbersome…not to mention gross," she finished for him, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah," he agreed through a nervous exhale. "All those things."

She remembers how he helped her out of the robe, his eyes never leaving hers. He tossed it over his shoulder, then wound his opposite arm around her waist. She held onto him as well, clutching his flannel with her right hand as they approached the first step. She remembers how their empty hands effortlessly found each other and the confidence it gave her to press forward. Together they ascended the steps…one at a time.

They were halfway to the top when the front door swung open…and closed loudly. "Lydia, where— Oh, there you are," her mother called.

A pair of high heels clicked hastily along the hardwood floors and pounded against the steps, broadcasting her every movement and making Lydia cringe as the clatter reverberated in her head. She exchanged a glance with Stiles. His eyebrows sympathetically furrowed as he pulled her a little closer.

"Now, let's get you settled upstairs," Natalie directed, as she arrived at Lydia's side.

Feeling her mother's hands slink between Stiles and herself, Lydia spoke up. "Mom, we're fine," she quickly refused, unwilling to separate from him.

"Al—alright… Be careful," she conceded, keeping her hand on Lydia's lower back.

For the remaining climb and the trek down the hallway, Natalie rambled about treatments…and ointments…and bandages, but Lydia didn't have a care for any of it. She kept staring at Stiles, letting the light from his eyes guide her and the strength of his arms steady her. She noticed his lips twitching, trying to stifle a crooked grin, and a tickling sensation flourished deep in her belly at the prospect of seeing him smile again. Nothing else mattered.

By the time they reached Lydia's bedroom, her mother had moved on to the topic of clean bedding, new towels, and some kind of willow bark tea that Deaton recommended. Lydia was losing her patience.

"Okay, Stiles, I'll take it from here—" her mother dismissively began.

But Lydia recoiled, clinging to Stiles with every ounce of her strength as she gritted out, _"Mom, please_ … _Just STOP!"_

The sound of her own hoarse voice was excruciating. Her knees started to buckle, but Stiles's grip on her was unwavering and he kept her upright.

"Lydia, honey we need to talk—"

"We can talk later. Right now, _what I need_ is for you to _back off._ Stiles is perfectly capable of helping me. _He_ is what I need right now. Can you please just respect me enough to understand that?"

Her mother took two unbalanced steps in reverse, her right hand pressed to her stomach, her eyes wide and mouth agape in shock. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Seeing her mother's reaction, made Lydia's insides clench with remorse, but she held her ground.

Natalie's mouth opened and a few times before she repeated, "I'm sorry. I'll just go make you some of that tea that Dr. Deaton recommended."

As she turned to leave, Stiles gave Lydia a reassuring squeeze and ticked his head in her mother's direction.

"Mom," she called with trembling lips.

"Yes honey?" she replied over her shoulder.

"I—I love you," Lydia squeaked out.

Natalie came back, touched Lydia's face, and kissed her cheek. "I love you too," she said softly, then she nodded and quietly walked down the hallway.

"You alright?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. Come on," he coaxed, blindly locating the light switch and encouraging Lydia into her room.

Her eyes scanned the space. Everything was exactly as she had left it…except for one thing – the addition of a bouquet of pale pink and white dahlias that had been placed on her nightstand. She slowly walked towards them, Stiles's hand still at her back. There was a card tucked between the blossoms, penned with two simple words: _For Lydia._

She had read once that dahlias symbolize a bond between two people, and she wondered if Stiles knew that too. Lydia's heart swelled with such affection for him that she thought it might burst.

She pursed her lips and sat on the bed. "When did you..."

"Uh…yesterday," he explained, kneeling in front of her. "I wanted you to have something…something nice to look at after… I know it doesn't—"

She touched her finger to his lips. "They're beautiful. I love them." _You're beautiful._ _I love you._

The words were forming on her tongue, but her lungs were so tight that she could scarcely make another sound. She remembers how Stiles took hold of her face and how he glided his thumbs across the apples of her cheeks until she was able to breathe.

When she caught a glimpse of the daily planner on her nightstand, she saw that the page was turned to October 10th – the last day she could remember. The day Theo hurt her. Her eyes immediately flashed to Stiles. _How long had she been away from him?_

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday," he answered quietly before dropping his hands, setting his elbows on the bed at either side of her legs, and averting his eyes.

"That's not… You know what I mean."

"Lydia, I don't think now is the best—"

"Stiles, please. I need to know."

His body shuddered as he murmured, "It's…November 5th. It's been three weeks. Three weeks…five days…and…"

Tears were stinging her eyes, but she fought them, determined to keep Stiles in sight. She sucked in her top lip. She remembers letting his statement roll around in her mind. _Three weeks and five days._ Twenty-six days that she lost. Twenty-six days that were taken from her. Twenty-six days that she could have spent _with Stiles_ …but she didn't.

"Oh…" was all she could manage to respond.

Lydia saw him searching for words and felt his heartbeat nudging rapidly against her knee. She practically heard the unnecessary apology he was communicating.

Seeking to console him, she placed her hands on his shoulders, and his eyes automatically lifted to meet hers. She shook her head, then opened her mouth to say _It wasn't your fault. You saved_ me…but Stiles spoke first.

His voice was filled with tenderness and compassion when he said, "What can I do, Lydia? Tell me what you need."

 _I need you._ She paused, momentarily rendered speechless by the intensity of his gaze. "I… I need to get out of these clothes. I want to take a bath…and put on my own pajamas."

"Okay, sit here while I get the bath ready."

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He covered her hands with his own, then placed them in her lap before standing and crossing the room. When he entered the adjoining bathroom, he disappeared from view.

Lydia remembers trying to stay still, but the distance between Stiles and herself only magnified the tugging in her chest. The one that used to scare her. The one that had become so crucially linked to her understanding of the world that she never wanted to be without it.

She went to her dresser, gathered a pair of black leggings, a pale blue long-sleeved top, and plain satin panties, then followed her heart until Stiles was in view.

He was sitting on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up, his left hand tapping restlessly on his knee, his right held under the faucet, checking the temperature of the water as a thick cloud of soap suds climbed higher and higher.

"Stiles…"

His head whipped in her direction. "Hey… I was just about to come get you." He silenced the running water, then stood rather abruptly, staring at the mounds of white foam. "I…um…might have gone overboard with the bubbles," he admitted shyly while scratching at his jaw.

He looked so sweet that Lydia couldn't refrain from smiling. "It's okay," she said, reaching for him. _You're too far away._

His fingers connected with hers as he came to stand in front of her. "You need anything else?"

 _Just you._ "No."

"I'll be right outside."

"Thanks."

He hesitantly let go of her hand and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Lydia set her pajamas on the counter, purposely avoiding the mirror. Being especially mindful of the left side of her head, she peeled off the thin tee shirt she was wearing. She glared at it resentfully. It smelled musty, and its charcoal-grey color was darkened with sweat and moisture that had transferred from her hair. She tossed it on top of the dingy robe that Stiles had deposited next to the sink and moved her hands to the waistband of her sweatpants. With shaking fingers, she fumbled for the ends of the drawstring that secured them and pulled…but instead of coming lose, she felt the entire waistband lurch around her waist. _It's knotted. Great._

She huffed in frustration and glanced down to survey the knot. As soon as she did, a wave of vertigo hit her. She remembers lifting her head, gripping the rim of the sink, and taking slow breaths until it passed.

Keeping her eyes forward, Lydia attempted to untie the tangled string without looking, but it wouldn't budge. The more she struggled, the more lightheaded she became, so she dropped her hands to her sides and turned towards the door. She remembers quickly debating whether she should put the tee shirt back on. The thought of pulling that disgusting thing over her head again and possibly grazing her wound in the process was far from appealing, so she decided that the thin cotton bra she had on would have to be enough. Reminding herself to breathe, she opened the door.

In her bedroom, Stiles was nervously pacing the floor, but he stopped as soon as she crossed the threshold.

"Lydia? What's the matter?" he questioned, rushing to her side.

Gripping at the strings, she self-consciously averted her eyes. "It's this stupid drawstring… There's a knot…and I can't look down without getting dizzy…so…" A few more tears blurred her vision, but she furiously blinked them away.

"It's alright. I can do that," he told her, touching her wrists to still her hands. "Come here."

He walked her into the bathroom and shut the door behind them. She remembers the moment his eyes connected with hers, silently seeking permission.

She nodded…and inhaled while his fingers nimbly loosened the knot until it was undone.

Letting out the breath she was holding, Lydia accepted the hand Stiles offered and released the waistband with the other, allowing the sweatpants to fall to the floor. When she stepped out, Stiles bent down to pick them up, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

It was worse than she feared. She hardly recognized the broken image that was reflecting in the glass. Her hair was damp and stringy, skin pale and pasty, dark circles eclipsing the skin below her eyes, lines of her ribs protruding slightly. And then there was her abdomen – scarred on both sides. On her left was a series of jagged pink gashes, evidence of Peter's bite. On her right was a single transverse line, sliced with near medical precision with a flick of Tracy's tail.

Her arms spontaneously clamped around her body; one bound across her chest, the other covering her stomach.

"Where should I—" Stiles started to ask, holding the bundle of her clothing as he straightened.

"Throw them away…burn them if you have to… I don't care. I don't ever want to see them again," she blurted out, voice crackling and body convulsing with tremors as she tried and failed to maintain her composure.

"Aww, Lydia…" he sighed, tossing the clothes on the floor.

Winding his arms around her, Stiles held her. He held her in the way that only he could do – his body solidly braced against hers, fiercely strong and all-encompassing, but at the same time, unbelievably gentle and mindful of her weakened condition. He held her like he was fully aware of how fragile she felt. He held her like he knew he was the only thing holding her together.

And finally, she let herself cry, without restraint and for all the times she had withheld out of fear and useless pride.

All the while, Stiles's hands glided up and down her spine, his breath caressed the skin of her shoulder, and his warmth and comforting scent surrounded her, lulling her out of the shock she had endured and leading her back to him.

Her arms had been locked between them. When she wriggled them free to return his embrace, Stiles moved closer, and she felt the fabric of his clothes shifting against her bare skin. She remembers how the sensation alerted her to the fact that she was only wearing underwear. The sudden awareness conjured a novel kind of whimpering sound from the base of her throat as her body began to inwardly tremble.

"Lyds, are you crying…or laughing right now? I can't tell."

"I don't know… Both I guess."

He hunched down until their eyes met, massaging her upper arms with his palms. "What is it?"

"It's so ridiculous," she remarked, angrily wiping a few vagrant tears.

"What is?"

"I never pictured it like this…"

Stiles raised his eyebrows and twisted his mouth into a pout.

"This is the first time you are seeing me in my underwear…and I've got on this pathetic excuse for a bra and…and these ugly cotton grandma-panties that are probably stamped with the name of a mental institution."

His mouth fell agape for a second or two, then he glanced down.

"They are… Aren't they?"

Lydia remembers the way her stomach swirled when he ran his index along her hip before answering, "Yeah…yeah they are… Right here." Then he smacked his lips shut and covered his mouth with his fist.

She pulled his hand away from his face, giggling through a new wave of tears. "Go ahead… The whole thing is ridiculous and…and…"

"What?"

"I miss hearing you laugh. It's been so long."

She remembers his beautiful bright smile and how the two of them laughed…and laughed…until they cried.

"I'm such a mess," she sniffled, peering over his shoulder into the mirror. "I'm… l'm—"

He touched her chin and tilted her face toward his, waiting for her to make eye contact. _"You_ are beautiful."

She shook her head. "I've got so many scars."

"That's alright… I've got scars too."

Lydia waited a few beats, watching his eyes gaze back at hers. "Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you… Will you show me?"

He looked at her curiously, then shrugged off his flannel shirt.

She silently scolded herself when he turned away from her. She remembers thinking that she went too far…embarrassed him. She worried that he was going to leave.

But he didn't.

Lydia could see his reflection in the mirror; head ducked, lashes fluttering with every blink, bottom lip tucked into his mouth, cheeks ever so slightly beginning to tint. In one swift movement, Stiles pulled his shirt up above his head before letting it join the blue-grey plaid on the tile floor. Then he stilled, chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Allowing her eyes to explore every inch of his back, Lydia stepped towards Stiles, her hand outstretched until it connected with the circular scar at his right shoulder. "Is that…?"

"Donovan…" he finished for her. "Yeah."

Following the outline of it, she lightly ran her fingertips along the puckered skin. She remembers how her insides twisted at the thought of how much it hurt him, how much that night had hurt him, leaving behind scars she couldn't see.

Stiles reached over his shoulder for Lydia's wrist and turned to face her. Bringing her hand upwards, he touched her index finger to his forehead. There was a thin white marking, shaped like a crescent moon, near his hairline.

"I've had this one since I was nine years old."

"How did it happen?"

He wet his lips. "Uh…Scott and I were goofing around. We were practicing our baseball slide on the hardwood floors at his house… Melissa had just had them refinished, so they were super slick." A shadow of a mischievous grin traversed his lips. "Anyway…we were about to stop 'cause Melissa was going to come in from the yard, but you know me… I had to get one more slide in. I slid all the way from the hallway into the living room…went right under the coffee table…except I didn't get my head down quick enough… Eight stitches…"

"I bet you don't regret it one bit," she noted with a slight smile.

"Nah…it was a really good slide – totally worth it."

Lydia caressed the side of his face, stopping at the sight of his blood-stained ear and jawline. "I did that to you," she said bitterly, tone burdened with guilt. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, come on… It's not your fault. Alright? I'm okay. Really. And…I'll probably even be able to hear in that ear again… You know…someday…maybe…"

Her eyes widened and flashed back to his face, which was plastered with a playful grin.

"Sti—les…don't…" she pouted.

"Too soon to joke about it... Huh?"

"Yes… _way_ too soon."

"Don't I get to want to see you smile too?"

"Then maybe you should say something that's actually funny," she quipped, almost forgetting how serious their conversation really was.

"I'll do better next time," he replied, smiling even more brilliantly.

She stared at him, spellbound by the way the golden-hued flecks in his eyes intensified, giving her more of the warmth she had been missing for so long. Letting the heel of her hand rest on his sternum, she traced the thin scar that spanned the right side of his chest, beneath his collarbone.

"What about this one?"

"Tracy did that, the same night she did this..." he explained, grin fading as he cupped his hand around the curve of her right rib.

"Stiles…" she breathed, gripping his shoulder.

"I know, Lydia. But you survived. You're here…and I'm so grateful."

She remembers his expression – it radiated pure love. The kind she never knew existed…until Stiles showed her that it did. She wanted nothing more than to just dive into him. So, she did. She let herself fall against him, her damp cheek landing on his warm chest, skin of their abdomens mingling, his hands splayed across her back, gradually bringing her nearer until the only parts of her body that Lydia was aware of were the ones that were touching Stiles.

They remained that way for a length of time, reluctantly parting when she found her voice through the veil of drowsiness that was slowly creeping in and fogging her vision.

Glancing at the tub she admitted, "I'm so tired. I'm afraid I'll fall asleep."

"Do you want me to get your mom?"

She shook her head. "Could you…stay? Please stay."

He looked at her for a long moment, then cleared his throat. "Okay. I'll um… I'll just turn around…so you can..."

It wasn't the first time she had seen Stiles respond so bashfully. His flushed cheeks and sweet shyness only endeared him to her further. She gave him a small smile and waited for him to turn. Then she slipped out of the undergarments she was wearing, kicked them aside, and sank into the bathtub. The water was perfectly warm, and the bubbles reached as high as her shoulders, their soothing lavender fragrance wafting up to greet her. She exhaled a long slow breath and watched as Stiles stood in front of the sink, erasing the dried remnants of blood from his ear and jawline before patting his skin dry.

She remembers how he came to sit beside her on the floor. Leaning against the wall, he positioned himself as close to the side of the tub as possible, then hooked his elbow on the rim – like if he couldn't be touching her, he had to at least be connected to her in some way.

Lydia wanted to be closer to Stiles too, so she lifted her hand from the water and placed it over his. He immediately flipped his palm up, and she laced their fingers together. Then she closed her eyes and relished in the powerfully fortifying sensation of having his digits linked with hers.

The room was peaceful, with only the sound of sloshing water and the static crinkle of dissolving bath bubbles permeating the air.

Lydia brought their joined hands to her face, resting her cheek on Stiles's knuckles and whispering his name.

"Yeah?"

When she opened her eyes, he was already looking at her.

"Thank you…for saving my life."

"Lydia, you don't—"

"But—"

"There isn't anything—"

"Stiles, will you please shut up and let me thank you," she said firmly, but affectionately.

He chuckled softly, eyes twinkling with moisture.

"When I was trapped there…before he…" she gasped. She couldn't say Valack's name – the monster who experimented on her, the man she killed. "Before he…did what he did to me…he tried to make me think you were dead. But I knew you were alive. I knew it. I felt it. _I felt you_ …and I knew you wouldn't leave me there."

He squeezed her hand but turned away. "I should have…gotten you out sooner. If—"

"Stiles." She sat up, pulling her other hand from the water and persuading him to look at her, soapy wet hand clasped to his cheek. "I know you did everything you could."

"But if I had been more careful… If I had been there for you, like you deserve…Theo never could have…"

"No. Nothing that happened to me was your fault. Stiles, you saved me," she insisted, bringing his face to hers and touching her forehead to his. "You saved me."

The swish of his abbreviated breaths echoed through the room as he tried to control his sobs. Lydia remembers how he nuzzled closer, until their blushing cheeks were pressed together. His other arm wrapped around her shoulder, palm flat against her upper back, fingers sneaking below her curtain of wet hair to graze the series of scars at the nape of her neck. She remembers that all the tiredness left her, that her need to ease his pain infused her with a strength she didn't know she possessed. She remembers the moment he calmed, and how that stillness dispelled an ache that, for weeks, had been boring a hole inside her like a parasite.

Eventually, they parted; their lips finding each other's cheeks as they regretfully allowed space between them. After Lydia scrubbed the grimy residue of Eichen House from her body, Stiles washed her back for her. Hugging her knees to her chest, she relished in the feeling of his gentle hands on her skin. He seemed to recognize every point of tension and soreness, easing them away and replacing them with the buzz of a euphoric kind of tranquility.

Then Stiles rose from the floor, towering above her like some sort of benevolent deity. He helped her stand, bundled her inside the fluffy warmth of an over-sized towel, and lifted her out of the bathtub.

Clutching her pajamas, he stood in front of her, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for a cue to either stay or go.

Lydia wanted him to stay. She trusted him. She could _always_ trust Stiles.

No longer self-conscious, she let her towel plummet to the floor. She remembers how his eyes wandered over her. Somehow, she knew he was looking deeper…looking at _her_. Not her naked body. Not her scars. _Her._ Just like he always had. Lydia believed his eyes could see inside…past layers of fair skin, battered muscle, and breakable bone. She hoped he could see all the way to her rapidly beating heart and know it was for him.

He touched her face, and her eyes fell shut. Then she felt his lips on her forehead, so she reached for his chest. His heart was pounding, matching hers, beat for beat…and she had her answer: _Stiles knew_ …and his heart was hers too.

They let themselves catch their breath, last of their trauma-induced anguish transforming into mutual comfort. Then, Stiles helped her get dressed. Instead of accepting the shirt she had picked out, Lydia asked for his flannel. She remembers that he held it open for her with a smile. While he fastened the buttons, she remained mesmerized by its welcoming warmth and familiar scent; an extension of Stiles enveloping her body. After putting his tee shirt back on, he took her hand, and together they moved forward.

* * *

When they reentered her bedroom, a tray was neatly laid out on her bed with a pot of hot tea and a stack of toasted bread. Lydia sat propped against her velvet headboard, Stiles right beside her, as she sipped her tea.

It was shortly past 1 a.m. when her mother rapped lightly on the door. "Lydia?"

"Come in, Mom."

As Natalie stepped inside, Stiles got up from the bed and picked up their tray. "I'll just go bring this downstairs," he said.

She felt a twinge of panic, but he gave her a reassuring wink – his promise to come back, and she relaxed.

She remembers how her mother carefully applied the salve that Deaton recommended to her wound before combing through the tangles in her hair and thoroughly drying it.

"There's so much I want to say to you, sweetheart," Natalie cooed, tucking Lydia's hair behind her right ear.

"I know. But can we talk tomorrow?"

"Of course. I just want you to know that I was only trying to protect you…I—"

"That's the thing though, Mom…" Lydia interjected. "I don't need to be protected from Stiles."

"I can see that…now," she acknowledged quietly, fiddling with the cuffed sleeves of the shirt that Lydia wore – _the shirt that Stiles gave to her._ "I'll let you get some rest," she added, kissing her temple, then standing and exiting the room.

Lydia remembers the moment Stiles appeared in the doorway, half of him hidden by the wall.

"Are you coming in? Or are you going to lurk in the hallway?" she joked.

He laughed and revealed what he had been hiding from her view. "There's someone who's been wanting to see you…" he told her.

She remembers her reunion with Prada – how her eyes teared uncontrollably when Stiles placed an eight-pound bundle of unconditional love into her arms. Prada's entire body rippled with excitement, and a faint whimper gurgled in her throat. Lydia felt Prada's tiny paws tap dancing on her collarbone as the Papillon licked her salty cheeks.

Through it all, Stiles sat close by, his hand resting on Lydia's knee, grounding her with an unparalleled sense of belonging and acceptance. She held Prada until they both calmed, then nestled her little companion into her favorite spot at the foot of the bed as Stiles covered her with a blanket.

By then, exhaustion had worked its way through Lydia. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the minute, and her desire to lie down became irrepressible. She remembers how attentive Stiles continued to be, how he settled her into bed, and how he made sure she had anything she could possibly need within an arm's reach. As he stood at her side, she firmly grasped his hand while admiring the flowers he brought her.

Lydia remembers how easy it was to ask Stiles to hold her. She remembers the soft expression on his face when her words floated through the air. His response, a single perfect syllable: _Yes._ Just one note, but it might as well have been an entire song because it filled her heart with a melody – one that she knew her soul would memorize and replay for her, whenever she thought of him.

Stiles turned off the lights and even through pitch darkness, he found his way back to her. She remembers what it felt like to have him climb in next to her under crisp clean sheets and a downy comforter, to have his head on her pillow, his breath in her face, and his limbs surrounding her small frame. All physical boundaries that had been in place for far too long had suddenly vanished. Lydia didn't know if they would return, but she was sure that she would be much happier if they didn't.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"This is real… Right? I'm out of that place, and you're with me?"

"It's real, Lyds… You're home, I'm with you."

She remembers how he answered another of her questions before the words even took shape in her mouth.

"And I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not leaving you."

"Good," she sighed, relief flowing through her like a tonic.

She remembers how his arms tightened around her…then he teased her one more time.

"So…you uh… You thought about me seeing you in your underwear… Huh?"

She bumped his knee with hers. "Sti—les… Go to sleep…"

"I will. I just want you to know it's okay…'cause…I thought about it too," he confessed with a chuckle.

Then he edged a little closer, nudging her nose with his. And she smiled.

Lydia remembers that Stiles fell asleep soon after; all the stress he had been put through finally catching up to him. She remembers tilting her head nearer…and nearer…until her lips were barely grazing his. She whispered three words before she drifted to sleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of his breathing and the solace of his strong arms encircling her.

In daylight, there would be harsh realities to face, but in those obscure hours, none of it mattered. She was with him again. _Her Stiles_ – the only one with the ability to heal her scars from the inside out.

* * *

 **Present Day**

When her eyes refocus in the darkened living room, Lydia is still wrapped up in Stiles.

He is doing that thing he does. His left arm remains draped across her shoulders, but now, his hand is cupped around the side of her head – heel of his palm resting on her ear, fingertips spread apart, each of them lightly connecting with her skull, and his thumb stroking her hair. She is pretty sure that he is not entirely conscious of the behavior, but it's significant, nonetheless. It feels protective, like he wants to pose his own body as a barrier between her and anything that could seek to harm her.

The emotional weight of Lydia's memory bubbles beneath the surface as she continues to watch him. She tries to avoid thinking about the fact that underneath his hand, lies a permanent vulnerability, a soft indentation on the left region of her cranium where a piece of temporal bone used to be. Instead, she focuses on the fact that one of the worst nights of her life also became one of the best _because Stiles was there for her_. That night, he gave her everything she needed…and he did it _because he loves her._

Since then, they have both been imprinted with a few more scars, some that run deeper than the others. With every rise and fall of his chest, Lydia aches to be closer to Stiles, to reassure herself that he hasn't been left with any open wounds.

Sensing her unrest, he instinctively stirs. He locates the remote control, pauses the DVR, and sets it aside. Turning to face her, he places his hand on her sternum.

"Lydia…" he whispers, "I'm right here."

"I know," she breathes. "You always are."

"Talk to me."

She sits up, untangles herself from the blanket that covers them, and straddles his lap. Then she finds the hem of his blue tee shirt and asks, "Can I take this off?"

His eyes are patient and understanding, and so trusting she thinks it could break her in two.

"Yeah, go ahead," he replies, leaning forward and raising his arms.

She removes his shirt, drops it at his side, and takes his face in her hands. The television provides just enough light for Lydia to see his features. She caresses his cheeks before kissing him slowly. When she pulls back, his eyes flutter open and his hands are gripping her hips.

"Stiles," she begins, while tenderly running her hands along his shoulders and chest, "I remember the night you saved me from Eichen House... I remember all of it now."

"Oh…" he remarks, a bit awestruck. He looks thoughtfully at her, then sits up a little straighter. "A lot happened that night. Are you okay?"

She smiles through misty eyes. "Yes," she answers, finding the white crescent on his forehead with her lips. "Remember how you showed me your scars?"

He nods.

Bowing her head, she kisses the scar behind his shoulder, and the one on the right side of his chest…and a more recent one that is carved below his left collarbone.

"There's one here too," he tells her, pointing to his heart. "It got bigger every time I thought I lost you."

Along with a few tears, Lydia sheds the lace top she is wearing to reveal her pink satin bra before returning her hands to his shoulders. Her insides tremble with emotion, but Stiles shapes his hands around the scars on each side of her ribs, and he holds her together.

"I have the same one, but you healed me, Stiles...in every sense of the word. You gave me everything I've ever needed because you gave me _you_."

He emits an unsteady exhale, warmth from his lungs heating her skin as it breezes past. "Do you know how much it meant to me…after being away from you for so long? Do you know how much it meant to be so close to you, to know you needed me as much as I needed you?" He kisses her in that soft yet passionate way that he does, turning her insides to liquid heat. "I could feel how much you loved me…and it was the only thing holding me together."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and after that night, everything between us felt like we were moving forward…together. It was like you gave me a part of yourself, and it made _this_ …what we have right now…it made _this moment_ possible. You healed me too, Lydia."

"I did?"

"Yeah, you did."

She drops her chin to his shoulder, her palms pressed to his lower back, her hair cascading over both of them. She sighs with contentment when Stiles holds her tightly and presses his lips to the series of four feather-light scratches that span the side of her neck…a memento of the most recent injury she has suffered.

They hold onto each other, just like they did on the night in her memory – their skin connecting, scars uncovered, souls bared. It is in moments like this when Lydia feels the most safe. She never imagined that being so vulnerable with someone could feel so right or give her such peace. But Stiles not only showed her that such an experience is possible…he inspires her to seek it out, to bridge the gap between their two hearts by showing him the parts of herself that she would never show anyone else.

"Lydia, could we stay like this forever?"

She gives him a squeeze, then talks into his ear. "As much as I'd love that…I don't think your dad would appreciate walking in on us half-dressed. We should probably put the rest of our clothes back on…sooner rather than later."

"Valid point. This feels so amazing though…holding you like this."

"Yeah. Yeah, it does…but later…we can pick up where we left off. Anyway…there's twenty minutes left to our show. Don't you want to see Morse solve the case?"

He unearths his face from her neck, countenance lighting up the dark room like a solar flare, "I think I figured it out."

"I had no doubt you would," she smiles.

Five minutes and several dozen kisses later, Lydia and Stiles are fully clothed and comfortably wrapped in each other's arms. There is nothing more she needs, because _Stiles is with her_ and she knows that he loves her…just as much as she loves him.

They both have scars, but their love gives them the ability to heal each other from the inside out.


	9. Rising with the Morning Tide

You had your feet up on the dash,  
window down  
and nothing else could possibly  
matter.  
Some road, some coastline  
weaving like thread through  
wool, tying us to  
a place, to each other  
and not just the versions that  
existed there.  
Some things stick, burrow  
into the folds of your soul,  
find the corners to get lost in  
and stay, dormant but  
pulsing.  
Come forth a scent, salt water  
or thundercloud,  
and we're back, reminded,  
made whole,  
if for a moment.  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

Despite the fact that Lydia is not a morning person, when Stiles asked if she would go to the beach with him, before sunrise, she agreed without hesitation. When he suggested they go to Beryl Cove, somehow she knew she wouldn't regret it.

* * *

Stiles gently woke her at 4:30 that morning...and he managed to do so in a way that didn't make her want to pull the covers over her head or mumble muffled curses into her pillow. In fact, he was so quiet that she didn't hear him enter her bedroom.

He coaxed her to consciousness with the softness of his raspy morning voice. "Come on gorgeous, it's time to show me your eyes," he whispered.

Lydia inhaled, slowly taking in his comforting scent. It filled her lungs as Stiles sat next to her on the bed and his warm hand searched for hers below the sheets. With his lips, he painted a line of tender kisses on her skin. He started at her fingertips and moved all the way up to her shoulder...continuing to her neck...her jaw...and her chin. Nose to nose, he patiently waited for her response, his lips hovering above hers until she welcomed him with a smile.

Her stomach fluttered when he briefly pressed his lips to hers. "Mmm...Stiles."

"Good morning."

"It _will_ be if you kiss me again," she flirted.

Eyes still closed, Lydia heard the faint sound of the laugh he emitted and felt the puff of minty breath that escaped his mouth. Seconds later, his lips were on hers again, both of his arms sliding under her back and encouraging her to sit up.

When he parted from her, she opened her eyes and drowsily rubbed away traces of sleep as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Hi," she said sweetly.

He caressed her cheek. "Hi, sleepy head. You ready to go?"

"Yes," she confirmed, but her body seemed unwilling to cooperate with her mind.

"Need some help?"

"Uh-huh."

"Okay," Stiles chuckled. "Come on."

He pulled the covers aside, then directed her legs over the edge of the bed and helped her stand.

As he walked her across the darkened room, Lydia was thankful she had laid out her swimsuit and packed a bag the night before. Two less things for her to do when she was barely awake and treading in slow motion. Yawning, she groped for the wall and flicked on the switch in the adjoining bathroom, squinting into the light.

When her vision cleared, her heart spastically jabbed against her rib cage. The shower curtain was drawn, and a set of fluffy towels was already stacked on the countertop. Quickly scanning the room, she also found that her cleanser, hairbrush, and sunscreen were lined up beside the sink. Even her toothbrush was laid out, complete with a dab of spearmint gel. Lydia suddenly felt completely awake and more than a little dizzy with love. She leaned into the boy that was standing behind her with his hands curled around her waist and his soul wrapped around her heart.

"Oh... Sti-les... What am I going to do with you?" she asked, wistfully shaking her head.

"I've got a few ideas..." he responded, kissing her temple. "Actually...more than a few," he continued, fingers roaming under her loose-fitting camisole, his reflection grinning at her in the mirror.

She sighed and spun in his arms. "You're so good to me," she gushed, rising to the tips of her toes and kissing him deeply.

He returned the affection, talking to her in between a series of tiny pecks. "It's the least…I could do…after asking you…to get out of bed…at…this…hour."

"It's worth it to spend extra time with you," she assured him. Hugging him close, she let her lips travel down his neck, then tugged the collar of his tee shirt aside to kiss his chest.

"Lyds…" he murmured through a weak moan, "as much as I'm loving what you are doing right now...we're never going to get to the beach before sunrise if we—"

She moved back to his mouth, stopping him mid-sentence. "Help me get undressed."

He shook his head, lips brushing hers from side to side. "Nah… I'd better not."

"Why? You've already seen me naked...already had your hands everywhere...and I thought you liked undressing me..."

"I seriously do," he admitted pulling her closer, "which is _precisely_ why I should go wait in your room."

"I'll behave…if you will. I promise. Pleeease..." she begged, projecting her bottom lip into a pout.

"You realize it's nearly impossible for me to say no to you...especially when you do _that_ … Right?"

She batted her lashes and flashed a coy smile.

"Not fair, Lydia. Not fair," he repeated, rolling his eyes and fighting a smile of his own.

Despite his feeble attempt to protest, he helped her undress, unable to refrain from a few lingering touches and ardent kisses. Then he turned on the shower and waited until the water was warm enough.

"You get fifteen minutes," he informed her, dropping one more kiss on her shoulder before heading for the door.

"Or..." she tested, one eyebrow quirked upwards.

He stopped, eyes not so subtly exploring her naked body. "Or...I'm coming back to drag your cute little ass out of here." Then he gave her a wink and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Forty minutes, two on-the-go breakfast sandwiches, and two iced coffees later, Lydia and Stiles are well on their way to their destination. They take the scenic route up the coast just as dawn is beginning to break, windows rolled down, Lydia's feet up on the dashboard, and her hand locked with Stiles's over the gear stick. She watches him smile each time the sea breeze sends strands of her long hair tickling his forearm, and her stomach swirls every time he glances in her direction. They talk about music and their upcoming trip to San Francisco, and Lydia quickly loses track of how many times Stiles makes her laugh. She feels more energized and alive than she has ever been at this hour of the morning. There is no doubt in her mind that it's all to do with the boy sitting next to her and the awe-inspiring love her heart holds for him. When Stiles stops at a red light and leans over to kiss her, the words _I love you_ fly right out of her mouth and land on his lips.

It's close to 5:30 a.m. when they arrive at Beryl Cove, their surroundings bathed in shadowy blue hues. Stiles parks the Jeep in the small adjacent lot and pulls a multi-colored beach umbrella and a small cooler from the trunk while Lydia gathers the bag she stowed on the back seat.

The air is damp and comfortably warm as the young couple stands at the highest point of the dunes overlooking the view. _The cove is theirs,_ not another soul anywhere in sight. They exchange a smile, Lydia wraps her hand around Stiles's elbow, and together they descend the slope, passing sprays of tall beach grass and lacy clusters of white yarrow flowers along the way.

They choose a cozy nook near an expansive formation of rocks that juts out into the water. In preparation for the impending sunrise, Stiles props the umbrella in the sand. Underneath it, Lydia arranges the large beach towel she packed and sits to remove her sandals. Then the young couple sprawl out together – Stiles on his back with his left arm supporting his head, Lydia on her right side with her head nestled on his chest. Her mass of strawberry-blonde hair is draped over his shoulder, and her floral wrap covers her petite figure like a blanket.

As they lie next to each other, the soundtrack of the earth serenades the sun to greet the world; gentle ocean waves setting the tempo, lazy whirling breeze humming a serene melody, seagulls harmonizing notes overhead. All the while, azure softens to powder-blue, and stratus clouds almost magically begin to revel themselves in shades of rose and lilac. Lydia and Stiles silently move closer while the heavens gradually lighten; the sun leisurely rising behind them.

When the temperature begins to climb, Stiles peels off his white tee, and Lydia puts her wrap aside, revealing her emerald-green one-piece. It doesn't take long for them to comfortably resettle in each other's arms. Stiles begins strumming his knuckles on the side of her rib cage, sending slow-moving tingles rippling through her entire body. His arm tightens around her as she glides her hand from where it rests on his abs to his chest.

"I could get used to this," he tells her.

"So could I," she replies. "It's all so beautiful…"

And it is. The pastel sky, the boundless ocean, the quiet signs of life that surround them, and especially Stiles. Lydia lifts her head to look at him, and he is already smiling at her like he knows exactly what she is thinking. She can't quite explain it, but in _this_ _place,_ her heart is pulsing at a different rhythm. All at once, its beats are being guided by the flow of the tide, the current of the wind, and the thumping beneath her palm. She feels connected to everything – every sparkle of sunshine on the water, every color in the seascape, every particle of sand, and most of all…to Stiles.

Lydia gives him a kiss, then returns her head to his chest. She focuses on the rise and fall of his inhales and exhales, relishing in the experience of being so close to him and the remarkable feeling she gets when she is with him – the one that makes it seem like they are the only two people in the world.

Her hand seeks his atop powdery grains, digits affectionately grazing before they intertwine and sink into the sand…and she remembers.

 _She remembers a summer morning between sophomore and junior year. June 16, 2012. Two years ago today…_

* * *

After yet another restless night, Lydia gave up on her useless attempts to sleep and stirred before the sun that morning. She quickly showered, brushed her teeth, and slathered on some SPF 50. Then she pulled on her royal-blue bathing suit, layered a white cotton dress with a fitted bodice and flared skirt over top, and styled her hair into a side braid. She picked up a pair of strappy sandals, her sunglasses, and keys. Lastly, she grabbed her cell phone, which she silenced and tossed into her purse on her way out of the bedroom.

She just needed a few hours – alone – so she could think. No technology. No interruptions. Just a few hours with the endless ocean in front of her eyes, the peaceful sound of the waves lapping at the shore, and soft sand below her feet.

Lydia remembers choosing only the quietest winding roads to the coast, and driving to her favorite spot, Beryl Cove. It was the perfect stretch of sand and surf – a hidden gem of a place, several miles north of Beacon Hills, which few people frequented on even the busiest beach days of the year. A place where time ceased to matter, where she could connect with nature on a level that she didn't often get to do.

After parking her car, she made her way to the edge of the pavement with a rolled beach towel wedged under one arm. The dense blue atmosphere was already beginning to alter as the sun sought its place amongst the clouds. Her sandals joined the sunglasses that were dangling in her hand, and she padded down the incline, tension in her body lessening with each step nearer the beach. When she lifted her eyes toward the horizon, Lydia was surprised to find that she was not in fact alone.

Someone was already sitting at the edge of the water.

A boy.

In the sparse dawn light, she saw him only in silhouette. She remembers that there was something familiar about his profile, the line of his shoulders, and the way he sat with his knees bent and his arms loosely encircling his legs.

Not just a boy. _Stiles._

She hadn't seen him since the last day of school.

Lydia's breath unexpectedly lodged in her throat. She considered leaving...but then he moved, and she froze. Stiles lifted a hand towards his face to swiftly swipe across his eyes. His head dropped down, and she saw his shoulders begin to shake. _He was crying._

She remembers an ache forming deep in the pit of her stomach and a sharp pinch beneath her ribs. Within seconds, those uncomfortable pangs had taken hold of her, making it impossible for Lydia to turn away. She remembers feeling pulled towards Stiles as though he were tugging at the end of a rope that was coiled around her body.

Before she knew it, she was standing behind him, one hand outstretched…only inches shy of touching him. She managed to inhale, then his name sailed over her lips with her exhale.

"Stiles…" she said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

His body jolted anyway, like he had been shocked by static electricity. He looked up at her, glistening eyes rapidly blinking with surprise. Lydia detected the ghostly sound of a sniffle as he once again passed his hand over his eyes.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to—" she began.

He coughed to clear his throat. "Lydia? W—what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same question," she replied, arm that was extended towards Stiles dropping to her side.

"Right. Sorry... I was just surprised."

"I gathered." Sighing, she averted her gaze towards the water, sea foam cresting the waves, glimpse of pale pink and turquoise sky claiming her attention from above. "I come here sometimes...to clear my head. I didn't expect anyone to be here."

"Oh... Yeah, me too. I just wanted to get away for a bit...have some time to think..."

"I'll leave you to it then."

As she backed away, he abruptly stood, dusting off his khakis, bare feet slipping against loose sand.

"Hang on..." he called, catching her elbow. "I didn't mean... You don't have to leave. If you want to stay, there's plenty of room. We could be alone together...not _alone together_...but you know…we could...sit in different spots or—"

"Stiles, it's fine," she interrupted, but he kept talking.

"Or _I_ could go...if you want to be by yourself...'cause I was—"

"Sti—les!" Her voice elevated, and he stopped rambling.

She remembers the way his jaw twisted to one side, mouth clenching shut as though he was forcing himself into silence, warm hand still wrapped around her elbow.

She softened her tone. "It's fine. Really. I can go somewhere else. I shouldn't have bothered you."

His eyebrows cinched together, confused by her conclusion. "What? You didn't. You could never... Come on, Lydia..." he persuaded, gently tugging on her arm…and a bit more forcefully tugging on her heart. "Sit with me a while."

"Are you sure? 'Cause if you want to be alone...it's fine. I get it."

"I want you to stay."

Lydia felt her eyes widen and a flux of heat surging underneath her skin. Unsure of what to say, she pursed her lips. She remembers the earnest way Stiles was looking at her with soft eyes and a curious expression – like he was worried he had offended her, like he really didn't want her to leave…and it made her want to stay.

"Okay. I'll stay."

"You will? I mean… Good." He let go of her arm, took the beach towel she held, and spread it over the sand. Then, he motioned for her to sit down.

She crossed her ankles and lowered herself onto one side of the towel, then she set her sandals, sunglasses, and purse down, and smoothed the skirt of her dress over her thighs. After she was comfortably situated, Stiles sat next to her with his legs folded and elbows propped on his knees.

They remained as they were for a length of time, mere inches of space between them as the sun continued to lift and the sky progressively brightened. It was quiet but comfortably so. Lydia remembers watching the clouds drift and reshape as intermittent gusts of wind pushed them further north.

After a while, she risked a glance at Stiles. He was taking hold of fistfuls of sand, then gradually releasing it. She remembers intending to look away but that she was entranced by his hands. His nails were bitten down, fingers scraped and callused in various places, but there was an elegance about the way he moved them, something that assured her that Stiles would never use those hands to hurt her. Her stomach fluttered when she thought of how firm but gentle his touch had been on her arm, only minutes earlier.

Lydia was lost in thought when Stiles made eye contact with her. "Uh...sorry about before. I didn't mean to get all weird."

"S'okay. You weren't _that_ weird," she kidded with a half-smile.

"Great..." he answered, returning the gesture and redirecting his attention to the sand.

There was a gloomy note to his tenor that made the ache in her chest intensify. "Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is everything alright? You seem..."

"Unusually quiet?"

"Well...yes."

He pushed out a breath and shrugged. "I just...haven't been here in a while...and coming back kind of hit me harder than I thought it would."

"What do you mean?"

She remembers the way his eyes looked when they met with hers in the receding dim. They were sad but beautiful; rich chocolate brown irises drawing her into their depths. She remembers the glossy sheen they had developed, liquid starting to collect above his bottom lashes.

"I uh...used to come here with my mom. She loved this spot." After a long pause, his gaze shifted. He pointed ahead of them towards the water, wet surface of the shore gleaming like a mirror, whitecaps polishing its surface. "When I was little, we would come here all the time. She would stand right over there in the surf with me, and we'd skim rocks off the water. She told me if I practiced enough…I could send one all the way to Hawaii." He let out a melancholy huff. "I thought...I dunno...that I would feel closer to her if I came here. I guess I do in a way but...at the same time..."

"It hurts," Lydia finished for him.

He quickly wiped his eyes in the crook of his elbow. "Yeah. It does."

Seeing him stare ahead and bite his quivering lip made her throat constrict. She remembers feeling lost – uncertain of what she could say or do to help him.

"I'm sorry you're hurting," she whispered, placing her hand on his back.

As soon as she touched him, Stiles ducked his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks and fell into his lap…and her heart followed their path. Gravity compelling her to act – she reached out. _She had to. It hurt so much to see him like this._ With her other hand, she tilted his chin upwards and encouraged him to look at her again. Remnants of the bruise he had sustained on his left cheekbone a few weeks prior were still visible to her; the angry read abrasion had faded to a faint grey smudge.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound was produced.

"Stiles, we don't have to talk if you don't want to. We can just sit here...but...I want you to know, you can tell me anything...and I'll listen. Okay?"

His jaw twitched under her fingertips. "I just... I miss her so much."

She nodded, tears stinging at the corners of her own eyes.

"Some days are harder than others. Today is one of those days. Today is eight years since she started changing. I'm sixteen...that's half my life already – half my life...I've been without her."

Stiles choked out a sob, and Lydia gasped at the sharpness it inflicted on her chest. She didn't trust her mind to offer the right words of comfort, so instead, she did what her body was calling for her to do – she pulled him into a hug.

She remembers the way he shuddered, how he tucked his face into her neck, and leaned into her without reluctance. She remembers the warmth of him, and the indelible line his tears carved across her heart. One of her arms was wrapped around his back, her hand gripping at the side of his maroon-colored tee. The other was curled around his shoulder, pads of her fingers massaging the smooth skin below the collar of his shirt. Lydia remembers what it felt like to have Stiles fit so perfectly into her embrace, and how her rib cage lifted when he slid his arms around her. Tempted to cry right along with him, she actively worked to control her emotions in the hopes of consoling him. He would do the same for her. He already had…more than once.

Lydia's memory retains little concept of how long she held Stiles, but she clearly recalls that she didn't want to let go. She instinctively wanted to keep him close, as if her body could absorb some of his pain, make it easier for him to bear.

Eventually, he stilled, and his tears ceased. He sat up, head bowed, cheeks flushed. "I um... I..."

"Hey, it's okay," she soothed, touching his face. "Remember when you told me I shouldn't worry if people see me cry?"

"Yeah."

She grazed her thumb over his cheekbone. "Well...neither should you."

He gave her a shy smile. "Thanks, Lydia."

In that moment, she realized that the sun was noticeably higher in the sky, its lustrous light shimmering off the water and catching the corner of her eye. She remembers the way the wind changed directions. It whirled across her skin, freeing wisps of hair from her braid and carrying the scent of saltwater, sunscreen…and Stiles along with it. She smiled at him and dropped her hand. It landed beside his in the sand. Lydia wasn't sure which of them moved first, but suddenly...they were holding hands; palms pressed, fingers linked. Together, they looked out at the water. She remembers how good and natural it felt, how she was instantly less burdened, how she became focused on her heartbeat rather than analyzing what she was going to say next.

"Jackson is leaving," she blurted out.

His head turned towards her. "Huh?"

"He's moving to London."

"When?" he asked with arched brows and a stunned expression.

"The end of the month...after he finishes Werewolf 101 or whatever with Derek."

"Oh...uh...sorry?" Stiles winced, scratching at the nape of his neck.

"Is that a statement or a question?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether or not you feel bad about him leaving," he elaborated.

She remained silent.

"How _do_ you feel about it?"

"Honestly…not as bad as I thought I would."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You know this already...but we didn't have a good relationship. Even when things weren't so bad…I never felt like…" she trailed off, struggling against the impulse to look away.

"Like what?"

"Like… _me._ I always felt like I had to...be who he wanted me to be…someone he could love. But he didn't love me. If he did, he wouldn't have told me he was leaving in a text."

"Lydia—"

"It's okay. _I'm_ okay _._ When I was driving here this morning, I realized that I haven't seen or spoken to him in two weeks...and I don't even miss him. I'm just...relieved. Relieved that he's okay — well, okay for the most part…considering that he still has a tail when he shifts," she clarified, ticking her head towards one shoulder. "But mostly...I'm relieved that it's over between us, that I don't have to try so hard anymore. I think that says a lot."

Stiles pushed their joined hands deeper into the sand, then he took a pile of grains with his other hand and scattered them on top, dainty granules spilling over their skin. His gaze was fixed on their hands when he said, "Then, I'm glad...'cause more than anything else, I just want you to be okay…better than okay… I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy."

Lydia remembers that she didn't even need to look into his eyes to know he was sincere. She could feel it in the grip he had on her hand and hear it in the quality of his voice. _Her happiness mattered to_ Stiles…and something about that knowledge affected the cadence of her heart. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was part of something much bigger than herself.

Her next words came easily. "Thanks. I want that for you too." _And she did._

"Hey, Lydia..." He peered over his shoulder, leaning towards her with a mischievous grin. "Does Jackson really _still_ have that god-awful lizard's tail?"

"That's what I'm told," she answered pursing her lips.

"How...fitting," he remarked.

She withheld a laugh, tremors quaking in her stomach as she averted her eyes from the adorable expression on his face. "Stiles..."

"Sorry."

"Don't be..." she glanced back at him and giggled. "You're right."

She remembers the lively sound of his laugh, how it dissolved the last bit of tension she held and echoed in the wide-open space that surrounded them. She remembers the butterflies that came when he lifted their hands and set them on his knee, dusting off the last bits of sand that lingered on her skin and wondrously looking at their interlocked fingers like the sight was something miraculous, something precious...and she couldn't help thinking that maybe it was.

"You know...we haven't seen each other in two weeks either. Did you miss me?"

"Stiles..."

"Come on... Not even a little bit? I mean...two whole weeks without anyone to exchange study notes or share your French fries with at lunch. Two weeks without anyone to borrow your pens or—"

She rolled her eyes. "Excuse me, but what _you do_ is the _opposite_ of borrowing. Borrowing implies that the items will be returned at some point…and you never do."

She remembers the way his mouth hung open in feigned insult...but that he immediately went on talking.

"Okay, you have a point...but it balances out. What about the fact that you can always count on me to have an endless supply of chocolate peanut butter cups? You know...in case of an emergency..."

She finally caved to his charms and laughed unreservedly. "Stiles...you're making me hungry."

His face was full of hope when he asked, "Are you? 'Cause I am. Do you wanna go somewhere for breakfast?"

A hint of hesitation crossed her mind, but Lydia chose to ignore it. "Yeah, why not. There's a diner on Sea Breeze Drive, called _Morning Tide_. Do you know it?"

"Yeah. I love that place! They have the best—"

"Belgian waffles," they finished together, and she felt him tighten his hand around hers.

She remembers how he stood without breaking the link between them. He waited for her to collect her things, offered his other hand too, then pulled her up from the ground until they were less than an arm's-length apart. He released her hands to pick up and shake out the beach towel, dispersing particles of sand into the air that tickled her ankles and brightened her smile. Folding it and tucking it under one arm, he reclaimed her empty hand.

Lydia remembers that Stiles walked her to her car, past a carpet of yellow primroses, whose blossoms had unfurled in the daylight, and rows of fluffy white yarrow that were swaying in the breeze. As they ascended the narrow path that led up from the cove, Lydia's bare feet occasionally slipped on loose patches of dry silt, but she didn't fall…because _Stiles was holding her hand_. Together they progressed, sun shining on their faces, wind at their backs, his arm towing her aloft.

When they hit solid ground, Stiles maintained his hold while Lydia put on her sandals. She remembers thinking she should let go, but she didn't want to.

Her eyes scanned the area. As though he knew she was looking for his Jeep, Stiles spoke the answer to her question.

"I'm parked around the corner," he explained, gesturing to his right.

The atmosphere seemed to thicken with a surreal kind of energy – something invisible, yet wonderfully tangible…like the wind. Lydia remembers being even more aware of the new rhythm her heart was following. She remembers how Stiles timidly stepped forward, but how confidently he wrapped her in his arms; instant warmth and strength coddling her body.

"Thanks for listening...for being here," he said against her ear.

The sound of his low voice and kind words resonated inside of her. "You too," she told him, hugging him a little tighter…just a little. _He probably didn't even notice,_ she told herself.

But when he squeezed her a bit more, she realized he did. _Of course he did._

"I'll meet you at the diner in five?"

"Okay."

He slowly let go of her and headed towards his Jeep.

Once he was several feet away, she called out to him. "Hey, Stiles..."

He was fishing his keys out of his pocket, but he turned towards her. "Yeah?"

"I may have missed you...a little bit," she admitted, heat instantly rising in her cheeks.

"I missed you too, Lydia," he smiled…and it was beautiful.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia eases out of her memory to find that Stiles has fallen asleep. Hoping to let him rest a while longer, she nestles closer, glimmer of a smile still gracing her lips. With a newly recovered memory still fresh in her mind, she concentrates on the sensation of their linked hands and the unparalleled comfort that she finds in the simple and steady expansion and contraction of his chest under her cheek.

They are still the only two people in sight, but the environment seems more awake and more vividly colored than it did earlier. She watches the ebb and flow of the waves as a family of sandpipers scuttle across the shoreline.

After a while, Stiles stirs, his hand clutching hers, long legs adjusting positions on their beach towel. Lydia props herself up on her elbow and delicately touches his cheek. When his eyes remain closed, she leans above him and kisses him.

He opens his eyes, brown orbs flickering with light while he smiles up at her. "Hi."

"Hi."

"You look like a mermaid...Ariel," he says as he lovingly runs his hand through her hair.

She smiles back. "If I'm a mermaid...then you're my prince." She traces the strong line of his jaw. "Did you have a good nap?"

"Yeah... Guess I was more tired than I thought."

"Even though you went to bed early last night?"

"I tried to…" he sighs, "but I don't sleep well without you next to me. I missed you."

"I missed you too."

He winds both of his arms around her and raises his eyebrows. "We have the house to ourselves tonight..."

"Is that so?"

"Uh-huh. Do you wanna stay over?"

"Yes," she replies, hooking her leg on top of his, material of his blue swimming trunks grazing against her thigh.

"Will you stay all morning...and all afternoon...and tomorrow night too?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

"What about the day after that…and the day after that?" he asks, sand-polished fingertips caressing her skin.

"Yes," she tells him, as he rolls onto his side and leans into her. "I want to be with you all the time." Kissing him once more, she rakes her nails up and down the curve of his spine. When they part, the lasting impression of her memory surges forward. Lydia looks into Stiles's eyes and speaks softly to him. "Thank you for bringing me here. I get it now."

"You do?"

"Yeah. All of it...the reason you chose today over any other...why you picked this specific spot...why you made sure we got here before sunrise. You brought me here to help me remember. Didn't you?"

"I hoped you would."

"Well, it worked. I remember us. We were here, exactly two years ago."

"That's right." He wets his lips, and she can hear the emotion in his voice when he continues, "I think about that day a lot, Lyds. Being with you made such a difference to me, and I felt so close to you…like we were connecting on a different level. It was the first time you opened up to me like that...you know... _without_ the imminent threat of death and destruction looming over our heads," he adds with a smirk. "I think it changed things between us."

"It did. I felt it too…like for the first time, I was part of something…more. It was also the day I realized..." she pauses, throat tensing with adoration for him.

"What?" he asks with concern; eyebrows pinched, lips parted.

"It was the day I realized...that your pain hurts me worse than my own."

He nods. "I know what you mean. I feel the same way about you."

A few droplets spill from the corners of her eyes, and an incomparable feeling of contentment washes over her. One which, Lydia has learned, comes from the joy of loving someone with every part of her being and from feeling that love reflected back so completely.

"You're not hurting right now… Are you?" he inquires tenderly, moving his hand to outline the tracks of her tears.

"No. I'm just so happy… _You_ make me so happy."

"That's what I want most in the world. You know that… Right?"

"I know. It's what I want for you too…more than anything."

"I _am_ happy – more than I ever thought I could be…and it's because of you _,_ Lydia. I love you _so much_."

"I love you too…so much."

He draws her in; his lips effortlessly finding hers and his digits weaving through hers in the sand. They kiss until they are breathless and all of her tears have evaporated. They kiss until their lips are tinted by the color of their love and their hearts are perfectly in sync with each other.

* * *

As the morning rolls on, they spend time lounging in the sand, talking and cuddling, and sipping iced tea. Later, they walk hand in hand along the shore. Stiles shows Lydia how to skim rocks off the water – the way his mother taught him. They play in the surf, collect shells and sea glass; within her collection is a bright blue one, and in his, a vibrant orange one.

As they prepare to leave, Lydia is tying her floral wrap around her waist. She faces Stiles while he lifts their beach umbrella aside to reveal a giant heart that he has made in the sand, the initials _LM + MS_ carved into the center.

Her breath hitches, and she braces one hand against her ribs. Then she steps towards him and dives into his open arms with a heart full of love and a smile to match it.

"Aww...I think she likes it," he comments, words muffled by her hair.

She pulls back to make eye contact, then firmly presses her lips to his. "She does...very much...but it's missing something..."

He shakes his head. "Sorry, but I'm _not_ adding Scott's initials," he jokes.

She laughs, then kneels next to his etching to draw an infinity sign under their initials. "Now, it's perfect."

"Yeah…it is," he agrees.

With a radiant smile on his face and sunlight glinting off his shoulders, Stiles offers Lydia both of his hands. She accepts them and falls right back into his arms – _where she belongs –_ the place where she will always be part of something…more.


	10. As it Always Was

There's a song you know  
If you listen close  
It will always be  
As it always was  
-To the Wonder by Aqualung

* * *

Lydia and Stiles are at the Beacon Hills Café on a Saturday afternoon. They are huddled in their favorite booth, tucked away in the back of the eatery, near the windows. From this spot, they have a view of the lake and surrounding forest; sunlight glistening on calm waters and illuminating the saturated summer hue of the evergreen trees. Lydia's fingers are clacking away at the keyboard of her laptop as she researches bed and breakfasts in San Francisco. Stiles is plotting out the best route for the upcoming drive with his phone's navigation app. There is a nearly finished plate of French fries set between them.

"I think I've narrowed it to two places. Which do you like better…the Victorian with the view of the bay or the one in the Richmond District nearer the park?" Lydia asks.

Stiles sets his phone down and slides his arm around her, leaning over her shoulder to look at the screen. "Um…either one," he says. She is just about to frown and gripe about him leaving another decision up to her, when he finishes by adding, "As long as I get to fall asleep in one of those beds with you in my arms and wake up the same way, I'll be happy."

Her cheeks flush with heat and an intense fluttering spreads through her stomach. Lydia knows that Stiles isn't feeding her a line or being agreeable to prove he is the perfect boyfriend. She can tell that he means every word, and he doesn't have to prove anything…because _he is perfect_. Everything about Stiles is so beautifully real and genuine that she can't refrain from taking his face in her hands and kissing him…slowly so she can savor it. His lips are salty and sweet, and the way he returns the affection makes her lightheaded. He twists around so that his body is blocking hers from any prying eyes that might be observing them. Then his right hand finds her knee, warm palm gliding upwards…until he reaches the hem of her blue polka dot skirt, where he stops to trace the outline of a heart on the sensitive skin of her thigh.

After they part, Lydia takes a moment to gaze at him, still cupping his cheeks while she searches for her voice. "Stiles…this trip is supposed to be for the both of us. _Please,_ tell me what you think."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"I know. It's okay."

He sneaks one more kiss before giving her his answer. "I like the one with the view of the bay. It seems more peaceful than being in the middle of the city."

"That's my favorite too," she responds with a smile, gently smoothing the front of his black henley. "See how easy that was?"

"Everything feels easy with us. Doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does."

He readjusts his position, leaning his back against the padding of the booth with a sigh. "This trip is gonna be the best, Lyds. Just the two of us…no interruptions… I can't stop thinking about it."

"I can't either," she happily admits, pulling her leg up onto the seat and rotating towards him.

They both reach for the plate of fries. Lydia takes one, and Stiles takes a couple, which he generously dunks in ketchup and devours. When she notices the ruby-red splotch of sauce that adorns the corner of his mouth, she reflexively dabs at his lip with her thumb. His mouth raises into a half-smile under her touch.

There is something powerfully familiar about the interaction, something that makes her want to delve deeper. So, Lydia nestles her head on his shoulder, places her hand on his chest, and focuses her mind…until the distant image becomes clearer…and she remembers.

 _She remembers the day she found Stiles – in handcuffs…_

* * *

On an exceptionally hot afternoon, Lydia entered the Beacon County Sheriff's Station. As she pulled open the front door, a forceful gust of chilled air greeted her, uplifting the waves of her strawberry-blonde hair and pushing it behind her shoulders. Her eyes searched the waiting area, and a few acquainted deputies acknowledged her as she walked down the hallway that led to the sheriff's office and adjoining squad room. It was there that she found the person she was looking for.

 _Stiles._

Well…part of him – specifically, his backside.

He was crawling on the floor. His right arm was extended, reaching for something, and his left arm was immobile, handcuffed to one of the six unoccupied desks in the space. She remembers that his burgundy tee shirt was riding upwards, exposing his lower back and one side of his abs, and his khakis were wandering downwards, revealing the waistband of his underwear and hugging the curves of his ass. Not exactly an unpleasant view.

Lydia smiled. She remembers admiring Stiles for a long moment; head tilted to one side, mind quickly beginning to drift into a daydream. The same one she had been having for months…

 _She wakes from a peaceful night's sleep, with Stiles beside her. His comforting arms are wrapped around her body, his face relaxed and happy. His gorgeous eyes are fixed on hers, sparkling in the morning sunlight. His soft lips whisper an I love you before they connect with hers and…_

Within seconds, she caught herself – her eyes widening, then rapidly blinking several times before she shook her head to snap herself back to reality. The reality in which she and Stiles were _just friends_. Her throat tensed with grief, so she swallowed thickly and leaned farther into the room, bracing her palm on the door frame while concealing the bag she carried behind the wall.

"What are you in for, Stilinski?" she asked, actively working to infuse levity into her tone.

"Lydia!" he exclaimed, entire body lurching forward in surprise, then self-correcting as his outstretched hand slapped against the vinyl flooring. "You're—" he began, abruptly lifting his head…and spastically managing to whack it against the edge of the desk. "Ah…" he winced, rubbing the top of his skull. He let out a huff and straightened up, this time more carefully avoiding the desk. When Stiles turned to face her, kneeling a few feet from where she was standing, his cheeks were tinted with color, and he quirked his mouth into a pout. "Hi," he said bashfully.

She remembers wondering how Stiles could make such a small word sound so...promising. Lydia felt her mouth involuntarily twitch at the corners. The sadness that dragged at her heart was already starting to lift, but she pursed her lips to keep a smile from emerging.

"Hi," she replied. "Did you lose something?"

"Besides my last remaining shred of dignity? Yeah, my phone," he shrugged in defeat. "I was trying to call you…and well, I'm here, and it's…over there," he explained, gesturing towards the windows with his unshackled arm.

He looked so adorable that Lydia couldn't withhold any longer. She gave into the smile that seemed determined to appear every time she was with Stiles but rolled her eyes in the hopes of downplaying how profoundly he was influencing her.

Walking past his kneeling figure, she discretely deposited the bag she had on the desk behind him, then located his phone. She crouched to pick it up and moved to stand in front of him, holding out the device in her left hand.

"Thanks," he told her, fingers brushing over hers as he accepted the phone. "You…uh…here to see my dad?"

His touch was sending pulses of kinetic energy up the length of her arm, making it difficult for Lydia to concentrate, but she remembers how his voice elevated slightly…carrying a note of curiosity perhaps, and she remembers the way he cleared his throat as though he was trying to cover it up.

"Actually, I came to see you," she informed him, letting her hand fall away.

He bit his lip through a smile. "How'd you know I'd be here?" he inquired, sliding his phone into his pocket.

"When you didn't answer any of my texts, I got in touch with Scott. He mentioned you were…um…going to be detained for a while."

Stiles lifted his right arm, tugging against the cuff that restrained him with a scowl on his face. "Can you believe this? My own father…"

"Very little surprises me these days."

He nodded, grin broadening. "Think you can help me get out of these?" he asked, mischievously raising his eyebrows.

"I'm pretty sure I can—"

"Great! I think if we—" he interrupted.

"But I'm not going to," she finished.

"What? Why not?"

 _"Because_ I don't think your dad would appreciate it."

He pouted, jaw twisting to one side as he clicked his tongue in frustration.

"I could keep you company though…if you want."

Lydia remembers the way his entire countenance shifted; jaw and shoulders relaxing, pout reshaping into a shy smile, eyes brightening with hopeful luminosity.

"Would you?" Stiles said as he reached for her hand.

Just a light touch…but it made her entire body tingle with affection for him.

"Well…I didn't come all this way to pick up your phone for you," she teased, trying not to think about how good it felt to have his fingers tightening around her palm as she spoke. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving," he groaned.

"I guess it's a good thing I brought that," she told him, ticking her head towards the carry-out she got him from the Beacon Hills Café.

His eyes roamed to the bag, then swiftly back to her. "That's not what I think it is… Is it?"

"One grilled cheeseburger deluxe – extra pickles, no mustard, with a cherry Coke and a side of fries."

He looked gratefully at her before he released her hand and looped his arm around her waist. For a moment she tensed, but another dose of long-awaited contact between them quickly softened her. Eyes falling shut, she gave in; one hand set between his shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head, her fingers automatically gliding into his hair.

"Lyds, you're an angel," Stiles breathed, hugging her close and nuzzling his cheek against her abdomen.

His choice of words siphoned the air from her lungs. She wondered if he had any idea of the effect he had on her. Each of his exhales were transferring warm drafts through the thin fabric of her floral blouse. The kind that tickled her skin and made her knees feel weak. Even with one arm out of commission, his embrace was complete, natural, _perfect._ Lydia couldn't ignore the fact that it was so easy to hold Stiles, so easy to enjoy being held by him…and far too easy to get accustomed to it. Suddenly, she was nervous. Her heart tempted her to slip into another daydream, and more than that, it seemed to be pleading with her never to wake from it. But she had to.

She forced herself to open her eyes, vivid glow of the sun-filled room making them sting. "Just how hard _did_ you hit your head?" she tried to deflect as her eyes adapted to the light.

But his response didn't make it any easier for Lydia to keep her wits. Stiles tilted his head to look up at her, chin resting below her sternum, expression solemn. His big brown eyes, intense and emotive, were locked on hers. She instantly recognized an acute degree of distress within them – Stiles was struggling somewhere between being scared and being relieved, like she was. Just like that, her nervousness vanished, and her desire to comfort him took over.

"Stiles…" she said tenderly, "what's wrong?"

His chest shuddered against her hips and thighs when he told her, "I was really worried about you. Are you alright?" His voice was low and sweet…familiar notes resetting the beats of her heart.

"I'm fine," she assured him, moving her hand to massage the spot where he had bumped his head. "What about you?"

"Better now."

"Good." She gave him a small smile and touched his face, pad of her thumb finding one of the more prominent moles to the left of his mouth. "Come on... Your food is getting cold."

"Didn't you get anything for yourself?"

"I'm not very hungry." Her hand was still cupping his cheek, and she couldn't seem to stop her thumb from strumming along his skin.

"You've been saying that a lot lately. Is there something..."

 _I miss you so much._ "I'm fine. Don't worry."

"Pfft…like that's gonna happen," he scoffed. "You'll share my fries though… Won't you? It's our thing."

And it was. Ever since sophomore year, the two of them had been sharing French fries, and Stiles always made sure that Lydia had the last one. _Last one's got your name on it_ , he would insist, and she would get that twinge beneath her ribs that made her want to sit a little closer, look at him a little longer, and not pull away if their fingers would graze when they inevitably reached for a fry at the same time.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

He squeezed her a little tighter, then slowly let go and sat on the floor. Leaning his back against the desk, he sprawled his right leg out in front of him and folded his left underneath. Lydia sat next to Stiles, curling her legs to one side and spreading her black skirt over her thighs. While he withdrew the soda from the bag and tore the paper from a straw, she piled a stack of napkins on his lap and popped open the box that contained the burger and fries. She held it out for him, but he waited for her to take some fries before helping himself to the burger.

"Mmm…thas so goom," he moaned, eyes closed as he chewed an enormous bite. Then he washed it down with a gulp of soda, offering the cup to her immediately after.

Lydia sipped from his straw, watching his eyes, which appeared to be focused on her lips. Her body rushed with heat. She remembers the stream of golden-yellow sun rays that were pouring into the space, bouncing off every inch of his skin, highlighting the flecks in his irises, and giving his lashes an iridescent shine.

She swallowed with difficulty and tried to release the tautness in her throat with a question. "So…are you going to tell me what happened in Mexico?"

"Oh…yeah, of course. Well, when we got there, Scott was..." he trailed off as he set the cup down and picked up a French fry. "Lyds, is there any—"

Digging through the bag, she gathered a handful of packets. "Ketchup?"

"Like I said… You're an angel!" he repeated with a crooked grin.

A split second later, his lips collided with her skin, stamping the imprint of his mouth onto her increasingly hot cheek. It had been so long since Stiles had done that, and Lydia was never more supremely aware of how much she missed the sensation. She remembers not being able to breathe and the way her heart seemed to be sprinting ahead of her, ready to leap right out of her chest. Before she could decide whether to lean into him or pull away, it was over.

They stared at each other for an extended moment. Lydia knew Stiles well enough to understand that the gesture had been spontaneous. She could tell by the way his lips were parted and the way his eyes remained unblinking. The fact that she could hear him nervously tapping his fingers on his leg, was cause for concern. Lydia never wanted Stiles to regret anything that happened between them, so she did the only thing she could do – she acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and steered him back to the conversation, silently hoping it wasn't the last time he would kiss her like that.

"You were saying… Scott was..." she led.

"Uh…right…Scott," he fumbled briefly before giving her a small appreciative smile and continuing with a sturdier voice. "So, first let me go back a bit…because if you don't hear about the drive, you're missing half the story. We were like two hundred miles or so, past the border…somewhere in Sonora…and Liam starts shifting…"

Lydia remembers how Stiles described every detail of his experience. The more he relaxed, the more animated he became, handsome features of his face and beautiful hands…even the one that was cuffed to the desk…chiming in, punctuating his words with movement. She remembers that, more often than not, Stiles would touch her _like he used to_ – without hesitation; fingertips finding her forearm or wrist, knuckles nudging the side of her thigh. When he adjusted the position of his leg, their knees connected…and neither of them moved away.

All the while, his gaze hardly broke from hers; eyes searching her face for reactions. She remembers how he intuitively paused every time she had something to interject…like he could read her thoughts or hear her questions before she asked them.

Their fingers grasped for the same French fry three times, but the contact was followed by innocent smiles rather than awkward apologies. With each minute that passed, it seemed like she and Stiles were shifting closer and closer…until without even thinking, she reached out to swipe a drop of ketchup from his lip with her thumb. She remembers how quickly his mouth flourished into a half-smile under her touch.

After that, she remembers fixating on his features; dazzling eyes flashing with fiery embers and salty pink lips pitching words that sounded like lyrics. She remembers wishing that he would just keep talking to her. She would listen for as long as he wanted.

By the time Stiles finished recounting his story, Lydia was tattered with emotion. She remembers feeling like she was splitting in two – her heart falling deeper and deeper for Stiles, and her head inundated with disturbing images of Kate Argent as a werejaguar, of every awful version of Peter Hale, of Scott as a berserker, of Kira in agonizing pain, of how seriously a very _human_ Stiles could have been hurt in the midst of it all. To complicate things further, she was still tormented by the fact that she had been left behind…she wasn't there for her friends. _She wasn't there for Stiles._

"Sounds like you had quite a trip," she remarked, averting her eyes to her lap, unable to suppress the despondent edge to her voice.

From the corner of her eye she could see Stiles wiping his fingers on a napkin and tossing it aside. Then she felt him drape his arm over her shoulder as he replied, "Yeah, it was exhausting…and worse than that, something was missing. Actually, I should say _someone_ was missing."

She shook her head. "Stiles you don't have to—"

 _"Yes,_ I do…because it's the truth." He exhaled loudly. "Going without you felt wrong but—"

"I know. Scott's your best friend… He needed you."

"He needed you too."

"And I was useless _again_."

"You know that's not what I'm saying," he said firmly while pulling her a little closer to his side. "Lydia… Lydia, look at me."

She remembers not being able to raise her eyes…afraid to see pity in his. She also remembers the gentle way his knuckles swept along her cheek as he tried to get her to face him.

"Hey, come on… It's just you and me here," he coaxed.

She inhaled an unsteady breath, fighting a sudden upsurge of tears, then hesitantly lifted her eyes to meet his. When she did, there was no trace of pity to be seen. All she saw was Stiles looking back at her in the same way he had many times before. He was looking at her like her feelings were the most important thing in the world to him…and all she felt was loved.

There was palpable softness in his tone when he told her, "You and I are best friends too…and _you_ are far from useless. I mean…you heard how it all went down… We were a mess without you." With cinched brows and attentive eyes, he paused, then wet his lips and began again. "We were a mess without you because _you_ are the one that holds us together…" his timbre quivered over the words, "like Allison did. And Lydia, I need you to know that I didn't want to leave – _not without you_. It hurt me to do that, and it won't happen again. I promise. We're a team… Right?"

Overwhelmed by the sincerity he conveyed; Lydia's voice failed her. She mouthed a simple _yes_ , her tears finally escaping as she nodded her head in silent agreement. They spilled down her cheeks and landed on his khakis, leaving dark splotches in their wake.

Stiles immediately responded. She remembers how his bicep tightened around her and his hand lifted to the crown of her head, fingertips stroking the braid she had woven that morning. She let him draw her still closer…until her cheek was supported by his shoulder, her nose just grazing the warm skin of his neck, familiar scent of pine needles inviting her nearer. When Lydia set her hand on his chest, Stiles turned his face inwards to kiss her forehead – and this time his kiss was deliberate. She could feel it in the pressure of his lips against her skin and the way he lingered for several beats afterward. She knew he meant it, and the hope it inspired filled her lungs to their fullest capacity, quieted the cacophony of self-doubt that was swirling inside of her, and brought a smile to her face…one that she didn't try to deny.

A fair amount of time passed without either of them moving. Although she was sitting on a cold unforgiving floor, Lydia was completely comfortable. If it was up to her, she would have remained in that space, _with Stiles,_ for an eternity.

Eventually, he spoke again. "You still have to tell me what happened with you?"

"Oh, yeah… _that_ ," she grimaced, reaching between them for the soda and taking a slow sip.

"Mason was supposed to find you. Did he?"

"He did," she answered, holding the cup for him.

"And…" he cajoled before taking a drink.

"So did a berserker."

He choked. "What the— _Why didn't you say anything sooner?"_

She lifted her head from his shoulder and sat up. "Stiles, relax. It was no big deal."

"No big deal? You could have been killed!" he pointed out, shifting to cross both legs underneath him.

"Obviously, I wasn't."

"Lydiaaa…" he groaned, running his hand through his hair.

"I'm not crazy. I didn't approach the thing _completely_ unarmed," she replied coarsely while taming the mess he had made of his hair.

He narrowed his eyes, looking at her incredulously. _"You went after it?_ What were you thinking?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I was _thinking_ I needed to get out of that school and _try_ to help my friends."

"You—Wait… Back up a minute. What does that mean? You weren't completely unarmed."

"I had a…a weapon of sorts."

"What kind of a weapon?"

"One that you'd approve of…" she evaded.

"Lyds…"

She buckled under the weight of his stare. "I had a… I had a baseball bat," she muttered in a scarcely audible tone.

She remembers the way Stiles's expression altered from irritated disbelief to one that was a mixture of bemused awe…and something else. Something she could only describe as pride.

"Excuse me? What did you say? It sounded like you said a baseball bat, but I know that can't be it because—"

"That _is_ what I said."

"You went after a _berserker_ …with a baseball bat?"

"Yes, with a baseball bat!"

He just gaped at her; eyes wide, jaw slackened, cheeks pink.

"There weren't a lot of options. It was going to… I had to do _something!"_ she explained with exasperation. Then she shrugged one shoulder and reduced her volume until it was narrowly above a whisper. "Anyway, I've heard they can be pretty useful."

"Lydia Martin…you never cease to amaze me," he told her, shaking his head from side to side. "What you did was really…impressive, and _incredibly_ dangerous…and _please_ , don't ever do it again…'cause my heart can't take it."

Her insides tensed and relaxed at the same time. It felt so good to be in _that place_ with Stiles again – the place where they speak what's on their minds instead of over-analyzing, the place where she can always be herself and he always understands, the place where it becomes so obvious that _Stiles still cares_. She thought about continuing their banter, but the earnest concern in his eyes was so apparent that Lydia couldn't bear to deny him the words she knew he needed to hear.

"I won't. I promise," she swore, placing her hand on his knee.

"Good," he sighed, covering her hand with his. Silence comfortably wrapped them in its embrace for a fleeting moment before Stiles asked, "So…how'd you do?"

"I got a few hits in…but it threw me across the room."

His body went rigid. " _Shit._ Were you hurt? Did you get checked out at the hospital?"

"I'm fine. My back is just a little sore."

His hand promptly moved behind her, skirting over the silky material of her blouse. She winced when he reached the mid-point of her spine.

"Right there… Huh?"

"Yeah."

"Come here," he encouraged, guiding her closer until her head was resting on his shoulder once again.

She remembers how he gingerly rubbed her back, heat from his hand diminishing the soreness in her muscles, proximity easing the longing in her heart.

"Is that any better?"

"Yeah…much. Thank you."

And she did feel better.

In recent months, the constant pull she felt towards Stiles had become painful. Right now, with him so close, it didn't hurt at all.

She remembers when his arm returned to her shoulder. Her hand instinctively rose to join his, their fingers loosely laced together but the unparalleled feeling of connection between them – the same as it always was.

Lydia couldn't ignore the fact that no matter the obstacle, their bodies always managed to fit together. She remembers how she and Stiles spent the remaining time talking about normal things like which elective courses they would be taking in their senior year and the plans they made with Scott for Kira's birthday. It was times like this when it was so easy to just _be with him_ , so easy to let him see her, so easy not to be afraid to fall deeper for him. It was times like this when it was so easy to believe that someday, the daydream she'd been having could become a reality.

Beyond the glass partition and open doorway, it was business as usual in the station – deputies buzzing past, phones ringing, filing cabinets slamming shut – but Lydia remembers that she could tune out the noise. All she could hear was Stiles; the rhythm of his breathing, the beats of his heart, the lyrics in his words.

When she was _with Stiles_ – the boy that she loved – everything else disappeared.

As the sun began to set and the light began to dim, Stiles and Lydia disentangled and cleaned up. She remembers noticing that there was one more French fry left in the box and that she offered it to him.

"Last one's got your name on it, Lyds."

"It's okay. You take it."

"No, the last one is always yours. It's tradition."

"Maybe I want to break from tradition this time."

She remembers the back and forth between them, each of them refusing to concede, until Stiles put an end to it.

"Okay, then let's start a new tradition." He picked it up, bit off half, and held the rest out to her. "From now on…we'll share," he grinned.

She accepted the other half and popped in into her mouth with a smile.

Maybe things between them were far from what Lydia had imagined a few months earlier, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like they were moving forward. For the first time in a long time, it felt like they were finding their way back to each other. She knew they still had a ways to go, but it didn't matter because being with Stiles was the only future Lydia wanted…

And being with _Stiles_ was definitely worth waiting for.

* * *

 **Present Day**

When Lydia departs from her memory, she is securely wrapped in Stiles's arms. She lifts her head from his shoulder and glances around the café.

"Hey, welcome back," Stiles greets her.

She regards him with wide eyes and a timid smile. "Sorry."

"S'okay. I know the signs by now," he says, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Were you daydreaming or remembering?"

"A little of both."

"You alright?"

"Yeah," she nods. "Yeah, I'm fine. I was just remembering when we started doing this…" She picks up the last French fry, takes a bite and offers Stiles the rest, bringing the morsel up to his lips.

He takes it directly from her with a broad grin, then captures her hand and kisses her fingertips.

"I'm glad we made that change," she continues. "It's much better when we share."

"It definitely is, "he agrees. "I wanna share everything with you, Lydia, French fries…a bed…a life."

"I want that too…and everything that comes with it…but there are some things that I hope never change between us."

"Like what?" he asks softly.

"This…" she begins to explain as she links their fingers together. "I want it to always be like this…the two of us always finding a way."

He gives her one of his trademark upside-down smiles. The kind that tells Lydia that her words are resounding inside parts of him that she might not be able to see but will always be able to touch – his brilliant mind, his pure heart, and his beautiful soul.

His tone is crystal when he assures her, "It will always be like this…same as it always was. I promise."

"I promise too."

They kiss. It doesn't last more than a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity of love has been communicated between them.

Stiles tucks Lydia's hair behind her ear, letting his hand rest at the side of her neck. "Remember…remember how I called you an angel that day?"

"Yes," she laughs. "I'm not sure that was accurate…"

"It was plenty accurate. You _are_ my angel. You have been since we were eight years old. You brought me back to life…more than once. You brought me home to you."

His tone is hushed and would probably be inaudible if he were speaking to anyone but her, but Lydia can hear Stiles perfectly – his voice always rings clear.

"Stiles…" she sighs, dropping her head to his shoulder. "You're gonna make me cry… I'm trying really hard to get through one memory without doing that."

"Aww…I'm sorry," he croons, pressing his lips to her forehead. "It's alright… Don't cry, angel."

Just like in her memory, all of the air escapes Lydia's lungs. She clamps her hand around his shoulder and clings to him until she can inhale again.

He waits until she breathes his name, before remarking, "I like how that sounds. What do you think? Is it okay if I call you that sometimes?"

"I'm not sure I'm convinced. I need to hear you say it again."

She feels his mouth curl up against her skin. "Lydia, my angel," he whispers.

Smiling, she kisses his neck, and his pulse swells under her lips.

"I'll take that as a yes," he chuckles.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"You're mine too," she tells him.

Because he is…and he always will be.


	11. Dear friend

I see now in you a disarming burning glow  
In my poor heart will a fire grow.  
\- Ochi Chërnye (Dark Eyes)

* * *

Lydia enters her bedroom on a Sunday evening. She switches on the lamp that sits on her dresser, drops her purse on the upholstered chair that is positioned beside it, and moves towards her bed. Relief sets in as she steps out of her high-heeled sandals and her tired feet sink into soft carpet. No sooner does she deposit her phone on the nightstand, than it vibrates loudly against the patinaed gold surface. If she weren't half-expecting it, she would have startled at the noise.

Without even having to look at the caller ID, she knows who is on the other end of the line. Still, she takes a moment to admire the picture that illuminates the screen. It was taken a few days earlier, at Beryl Cove. Increasing its pace, her heart responds to the image of her love – glowing with sunlight, bare chest, blue swimming trunks, damp messy hair, and a perfect crooked grin. He is sitting in the sand, next to the heart he drew and engraved with their initials. The corners of Lydia's mouth uplift as she focuses on the infinity symbol she contributed, and her thumb swipes swiftly to accept the call.

"Stiles, it's only been fifteen minutes," she answers, doing her best to sound stern despite the smile on her face.

"I know."

Tilting her head to her left, she braces the phone between her shoulder and the side of her face to free up her hands. "So, you're calling because…"

"I was...um…wondering if...maybe I left my jacket in your room the last time I was there," he replies, obviously grasping for an excuse. "You know...the grey baseball jacket."

"Stiles...it's summer...in Beacon Hills. You don't need a jacket," she points out as she wriggles out of her pink chiffon skirt.

"Right...right... Good point. It's my favorite though. Did I leave it there?"

"No, you didn't. It's in _your_ room...hanging in the closet. Go look," she tells him, taking the phone in her hand again.

"Oh...uh...hang on a sec."

She shakes her head, laughing silently as the muffled sounds she detects indicate that he is needlessly rummaging through his closet…because he already knows exactly where the jacket is located.

"Yup...found it. You were right."

 _God, he is so adorable,_ she thinks before coaxing him to confess the real reason for his call. "Babe, what's going on?"

"Nothing... I just...wanted to make sure you got in okay," he explains…and she remembers.

 _She remembers the night when she wandered to the community pool...and found the body of a dead boy._

* * *

It was shortly after 11 p.m. when Lydia flicked on the light switch and walked into her bedroom. Stiles was close behind.

"Uh… You didn't have to follow me home," she said.

"I just wanted to make sure you got in okay," he explained, setting her bag, which he had insisted on carrying for her, on the floor.

"I had a police escort," she reminded him as she tossed her jade-green coat on the bed and sat down.

"I know the inner workings of that force… Alright? They're not _nearly_ as reliable as people think."

"Well, you also didn't have to follow me _into my room."_

"Well, I..." he trailed off, head bobbing and eyes blinking as he searched for words. "I have a… Yeah, I don't have an answer for that," he yielded, swallowing with difficulty. "I—I can leave."

Lydia remembers how the right side of his mouth twitched nervously while he backed towards the door. At the same time, something sharp tugged inside of her. She didn't want him to leave, so she tried to stall him.

"Are you _really_ gonna go without asking me the question that you've been _dying_ to ask me?"

"Well, I'm not... I haven't been _dying_ to ask…anything. I... No questions here...for Stiles. Nothing."

She rolled her eyes and sighed at his unsuccessful attempt to feign ignorance. "I can see it on your face," she noted solemnly, looking away.

"Maybe my face just has, like, a naturally…interrogatory ex—expression."

The fact that he was trying so hard to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary unsettled her. Stiles was usually so forthcoming.

"Well, your interrogatory expression is _getting on my nerves_ ," she snipped, turning to face him again.

He let out a breath and wet his lips, extending his hand towards her then dropping it, his countenance a blend of dejection and apologetic understanding.

Lydia remembers the instantaneous pang of guilt that poked at her stomach when she recognized the mistake she was making. She was taking her frustration out on Stiles, and he wasn't responsible for anything that had happened to her. He deserved better, and she knew it.

He deserved better because even though it sounded like he had been sleeping, and even though his house was at least a twenty-minute drive from the community pool, Stiles arrived within ten minutes of her call – complete with a spiral-shaped imprint, probably from the binding of a notebook he had fallen asleep on, marking his jawline. He deserved better because ever since the moment he hopped out of his Jeep and rushed to her side, he had shown nothing but concern for her. He deserved better because even though she had a police escort, Stiles followed her home to make sure she got in okay. A bit overprotective maybe, but she knew it came from a place of care, and she couldn't ignore how much that meant to her.

Adjusting her tone, she replied to his unspoken question. "The answer is – I have no clue how I ended up finding that body. I didn't even know where I was until I got out of the car."

"Yeah, but the last time something like this happened..." he trailed off.

She could see that he was coming to a disturbing conclusion – the same one that had already been slithering its way into her thoughts but which she wasn't prepared to deal with.

"I know… Derek's uncle," she finished for him.

"Peter," he said, closing his eyes, like he immediately regretted saying it aloud.

If Stiles had guessed that the sound of _that name_ triggered a terrible chain reaction of images and sensations inside of her, then he would have been correct…because _that name_ made Lydia's blood run cold. It made the base of her neck prickle with pins and needles and flipped her stomach upside-down. It was the name of the red-eyed monster who attacked her, who tore open her abdomen and threatened to take her life…like it belonged to him. It was the name of the wolf who crept into her mind, who haunted, manipulated, and controlled her for months afterward…and enjoyed every second of it. Her throat, which was already sore, seized up, and she could practically feel the grip of Peter's cold hands constricting around it.

Lydia couldn't speak, so she watched Stiles until he opened his eyes again. His brows were pinched together, his jaw clenched, and the tight fist that his hand had formed was shaking at his side. Everything about his body language communicated _pain and anger._ It was more than sympathetic comprehension. It was as if Stiles could _feel_ what she felt – with equal intensity. She remembers the overwhelming need to hide, so she covered her face with both hands, just in time to muffle the whimper that escaped her lips.

She promptly heard Stiles moving closer. "Lydia, I'm sorry," he whispered, placing a hand on her back. Instant warmth, melting the ice beneath it.

"Don't be. It's not your fault," she spoke into her palms.

"It isn't yours either. Come on… It's alright," he tried to soothe her, loosely wrapping his other hand around her right wrist.

His touch was gentle… _like always._ When he tugged on her arm, she let him pull her hand away from her face. She remembers the deep-rooted care in he expressed as he knelt next to her bed.

"No, it isn't," she told him, pursing her lips and looking toward the ceiling, as she fought an onset of tears. "Stiles, what if I'm hurting people? I had no idea what I was doing last spring. What if it's all starting again? What if..."

The sound of her own voice cracked over each syllable, activating a powerful reflex inside that made every muscle in her body tense with fear.

"What if what?"

His tone was so soft that it drew her eyes to his. She thought she saw a trace of hope shine from within them. It was _so beautiful_ , and she wanted to let it reach her. She knew it could feel good – it had before. But, in that moment, she wasn't sure how to accept something so pure without tainting it.

"Never mind. It's late," she deflected.

"Lydia..."

"I'm fine, Stiles."

"You know you can talk to me… Don't you?"

She remembers the way that glimmer of hope began to fade, morphing into hurt while she hesitated to answer. Lydia hated herself for what she was doing. She had to let him know that she was to blame, _not him._

"I know," she finally affirmed, lightly touching his knuckles with her fingertips.

He was so close, his gaze so attentive that it blanketed her with warmth and loosened her tongue.

"I know, Stiles," she repeated. "I just...don't want to talk about this right now. I have a headache, and it's all a lot to— It's a lot. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I do," he nodded. The hand that was on her back pressed down a little, his palm gliding up and down her spine, sending waves of heat in every direction. "Did you take anything for your headache?"

"I was going to the pharmacy when I ended up…"

"Oh... I have some ibuprofen." Letting go of her wrist, he dipped his fingers into his pocket. "Here," he said, handing her a small packet with two capsules.

As soon as Stiles rose from the floor, both of his hands slipped away from her, and Lydia mourned the loss of physical connection between them. Her forearm suddenly felt exposed without his palm and fingers curled around it, and the heat he had infused into her back was dissipating.

In recent weeks, it was beginning to feel familiar to have his hands on her, and she liked it. No other boy ever touched her the way he did. With Stiles, a touch was more than skin to skin contact, more than a means for nerve endings in her dermis to provide sensory information for her brain to process. He reached further somehow – he gave her heart a reason to beat faster, made her stomach swirl with a novel kind of excitement, and caused her head to spin like the world was reversing on its axis.

In an effort to maintain her balance, Lydia let her eyes follow Stiles as he walked to the opposite side of her bed, where she had left an empty glass and a small pitcher of water. He filled the glass and passed it to her while she tore open the packet of pills. She thanked him before popping the ibuprofen into her mouth and taking a gulp of water.

He hesitated, nibbling on his lower lip, like he was deciding what to say. "I should go...so you can get some sleep." Gesturing towards the door, he took a few steps in its direction.

A tremor of panic traveled the length of her larynx, the words _please_ _don't go_ ready to swoop out of her mouth. She pursed her lips to catch them, so she wouldn't sound as desperate as she felt, then reshaped them into a statement that seemed more appropriate.

"Stiles, you don't have to go. I mean, I—I…" she stumbled, grasping for the edge of his grey checked hoodie and catching it between her thumb and index fingers.

He stopped in his tracks, blinking at her with uncertainty.

"I don't think I can sleep anyway. Do you wanna stay for a while?... Maybe watch a movie or something?" she suggested, relaxing her hold on his hoodie.

His brows arched and eyes widened, but he quickly agreed, lips quivering to minimize a smile when he told her, "Yeah, sure. I'd like that."

She remembers wishing he didn't look so surprised by her invitation...but she knew that was her fault too. Why hadn't she ever asked him before? Observing him for a long moment, Lydia swallowed the remnants of her flustered tone.

"You mind if I go get changed first?" she asked, sliding her feet out of the four-inch heels she had been wearing.

"No. Go ahead… I can wait."

Giving him a small smile, she padded towards her dresser and picked out some pajamas and underwear. She was aware of his eyes on her, so she glanced over her shoulder and pointed in the direction of the shelf beside her closet. "Why don't you pick a movie? I won't be long."

"Sure… I'll just…do that," he self-corrected, averting his stare and anxiously scratching at the base of his skull.

She remembers crossing the room to the adjoining bathroom and turning around to look at him. His head was tilted sideways, eyes skimming the titles of her small collection of DVDs, arms folded, index finger tapping on his upper arm.

"Hey, Stiles?"

"Yeah?" he replied, lifting his gaze to meet hers.

"If you're thirsty…or hungry, there's plenty of food in the kitchen. Make yourself at home."

The corners of his mouth finally quirked up. "Thanks."

She returned his smile, pushed open the door, and called out to him one more time. "Oh, and the popcorn is in the pantry…near the fridge."

"Okay."

Lydia stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She removed her belt, discarded her dress and underwear in the clothes hamper, and tied her hair up into a tight bun at the top of her head. Making sure the water was as warm as possible, she got into the shower and picked up her body wash. It was then that she saw the particles of dried blood that were staining her cuticles. An image of the boy whose body she found flashed before her eyes. She remembers how the knot that had formed in her stomach an hour or so earlier started to twist more severely. She squeezed some soap into her hands and vigorously began to scrub them clean. Even when every last trace of blood was gone, she was plagued with a heaviness in her chest and a persistent worrying sensation.

Huffing out a breath, she finished washing, towel-dried, and dressed in the pink panties, grey leggings, and knit top she had selected from her dresser. Then, she released her hair from its bun and combed it through until it was silky and free of all tangles. Running her hands over her face, she examined her tired reflection in the mirror. She remembers an unexpected surge of nerves. She wasn't used to letting people, especially boys, see her like this – no make-up, comfy pajamas…and, on top of that…traumatized.

But then she thought about how Stiles had rushed to meet her when she called him, and how the first question out of his mouth was " _Lydia, are you okay?"._ She thought about how he reached for her, but read her body language well enough to know she didn't want to be held _just then_ …because if Stiles had held her in _that way_ that he does, she surely would have broken into tears – and she couldn't _just then._ If she had, she doubts she ever would have stopped.

Lydia also thought about the way Stiles asked if she wanted to sit in the Jeep with him until the police arrived and how he meticulously adjusted the heat until she stopped shivering. She thought about how he followed her back to her house, even though it was out of his way, and how he opened the car door for her, holding out his hand like he knew she was ready to accept the lifeline he was offering. She thought about the tender way he regarded her when he knelt next to her bed and how he tried to disguise his smile when she asked him to stay.

Every one of those thoughts made Lydia realize that she didn't have to be nervous. She was _with Stiles_ – the boy who told her she was smart and beautiful, the boy who asked her what she thought and how she felt, the boy who would put himself between her and anything that would dare harm her. He cared about her. He was her friend – the first boy to ever be a true friend to her. The only boy whose presence filled an expansive void in her life, and who never asked for a thing in return.

She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep inhale. Then she slowly exhaled, moved towards the door, and reentered her bedroom…to be with Stiles.

The first thing she noticed set him even further apart from any boy she had allowed into her room. Instead of boldly positioning himself on her bed wearing fewer clothes than he had walked in with, Stiles was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, hoodie and sneakers still on. There was a bowl of popcorn and two mugs of hot cocoa on a tray next to him…salty and sweet – one of her favorite combinations. He was reading her history textbook, thumb flicking over the edge of the pages, right foot shaking to some rhythmic tune that had probably been running through his mind all day.

Lydia remembers how her eyes watered at the sight of him, and she remembers the profound ease she experienced when he lifted his head, flashing one of his signature crooked smiles in her direction.

"Hey, how's your head?"

For a split second, she forgot she had a headache. It was completely gone. She looked at her alarm clock. It indicated that less than fifteen minutes had passed since she took the pain medication Stiles gave her, not enough time for it to have worked.

"Oh…um…much better, thanks," she answered, her feet finally moving her towards him.

"Good," he remarked, closing the textbook and putting it aside.

"So…what movie did you pick?"

Stiles held up the jacket for _The Shop Around the Corner_. His choice plucked at her heartstrings – not just because it was one of her favorites, but also because it was early October and he had chosen a Christmas movie. Lydia had once admitted to him that she enjoyed watching them, anytime of the year, and knowing Stiles – he remembered.

"Have you ever seen it?" she asked.

"No, but James Stewart was in it, so it's got to be good... Right?"

"Yeah, it is."

She took a few more steps, crouched next to him, then picked up the tray he had laid out, and ticked her head to the left. "Come on. We can sit on my bed. It'll be a lot more comfortable than the floor."

"Uh… Okay," his shy voice responded.

Stiles got up from the floor and fiddled with the remote control…waiting as Lydia placed the popcorn and hot cocoas on one of the nightstands. She dimmed the lights a little before positioning herself on the left side of the bed, her back propped against her plum-colored headboard and a pillow.

A warm sensation seeped into her stomach when she understood that Stiles was still waiting for a signal from her, so she patted the empty space next to her. He carefully sat, toeing off his sneakers and arranging a pillow behind him. Once he appeared to be contentedly situated beside her, Lydia passed one of the mugs to him and put the popcorn and some napkins between them so they could easily share.

After he cued up the movie, Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and sighed gently. Lydia took a sip from her cup and smiled, thick chocolaty liquid soothing the soreness in her throat better than any medicine. She remembers meaning to watch the movie but being more captivated by Stiles. He was looking ahead with such focus, such curiosity…and such a sweet expression; head tilted slightly, eyes a little wide, lips in a tiny parted pout. He was quiet, but in a very Stiles-like way, he was still able to communicate to her how much he was enjoying the film; eyebrows raising and lowering or sometimes crinkling together, lashes fluttering more furiously at times, side of his mouth elevating at all the lines of dialogue that always made her smile.

A third of the way through the movie, the popcorn and hot cocoa were gone. Lydia discarded the empty bowl and Stiles took the mugs, both of them shifting nearer the middle of the bed when they resettled. Their bodies were close but not touching, and Lydia was especially aware of how much she wished to be closer. Everything felt clearer when she was closer to Stiles. His bolstering presence was gradually alleviating the weight of worry that had been pressing on her all night. Somehow, he always managed to make her feel better – just by being there.

While, on screen, Alfred Kralik and Klara Novak were arguing in the stock room, Lydia tried to pinpoint what it was about Stiles that made her feel such an intense connection, the _one thing_ that made her choose to call him before any of her other friends that night. The task was even more daunting than she had anticipated because, in truth, there were a lot of things about Stiles that had made an impression on her.

Maybe it was the way he spoke to her – like they were equals; always honest, but never harsh or hurtful. Maybe it was the way he listened to her, like no matter what…her words were of value to him. Maybe it was how smart he was, his mind always several steps ahead of everyone else in the room – always searching for information, distinguishing details that no one else bothered to notice, and interpreting it in ways that others couldn't. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, like he could see past all the layers of hurt to something _more –_ the person she wanted to be. Maybe it was the way he made her laugh – like no one else could; the kind that developed in a hidden place, tucked beneath her ribs, and was impossible to withhold because it insisted on rippling through every cell in her body. Maybe it was the way he cared – about everything and everyone. She never knew someone who cared so deeply about so much.

Maybe it wasn't any one thing that drew her to him, but rather a perfect combination…all the things that made Stiles… _Stiles._

What Lydia knew for sure was that _she trusted Stiles,_ and no matter how scared she was, she _wanted_ to talk to him. She took a slow breath and a familiar scent saturated her consciousness – pine needles. Stiles always smelled like pine needles, the scent that carried memories of Christmastime when she was very young, before her father became the first in a long line of people who let her down. It was the same scent that permeated her mind and numbed her pain as she slipped in and out of consciousness on the freezing turf of the lacrosse field. The same scent that soothed her enough to encourage shallow breaths on that cold night in January, when _Stiles_ was the only thing that came between her and death at the other end of Peter's sharp claws and cruel fangs.

She remembers thinking that, just like on the night she was bitten, there was no way she would survive without Stiles. That night, he kept her anchored to the world of the living, and ever since, he had been anchoring her to a better version of herself – one that was strong enough to stand on her own two feet but also brave enough to ask for help when she needed it.

She stopped staring at him to glance at the television. Klara was sitting in bed, reading through the pages of a letter she had received from her anonymous love, each of them always addressed in the same way: _Dear friend…_

Lydia waited a few more minutes, then finally spoke up. "Stiles?" she called quietly.

His head turned towards her. "Hmm…"

She took one look at him – open and willing to listen – and the words came easily. "What if he's still in my head? What if he's controlling me again?"

His face immediately reshaped; brows furrowed, mouth drooping into a frown. He grabbed for the remote control to pause the movie, then shifted his entire body closer, taking both of her hands in his and gripping them firmly.

"Lydia, listen to me. I know this is scary. I know it is…and…and I can't even tell you how much I wish none of this was happening but…" his top lip twitched, tone grating with emotion when he added, "but if he's doing something to you, he's _not_ going to get away with it."

Once again, she saw her own distress and anger mirrored in him, especially in his eyes. Eyes that were always so bright, growing darker…...because he cared about her _that much_ , because her pain hurt him too. Every ounce of hatred she had for Peter multiplied exponentially. Lydia remembers fearing that although the bond she felt with Stiles was helping her, it only seemed to be hurting him, and it made her stomach coil up with regret. She remembers the sickening notion that if she allowed Stiles any closer, she would ruin him. She had to look away.

"Lydia?"

"I can't do this. I can't drag you into this."

"Don't say that," he stopped her, lifting their joined hands and resting them where his shins were crossed. "You're not dragging me into anything. I _want_ to help you. Please let me. Just…talk to me."

The patience and tenderness he conveyed unhinged her mouth, but the words were lodged in her throat.

As if Stiles could distinguish that her silent gasp was a plea for help, he coached her, "It's okay. Just tell me what you're thinking…how you feel."

 _"I hate him._ I hate him for what he did to Allison and Scott, and for all the ways he hurt you. I hate him for what he did to me…for what he _took from me_ , and I don't know how to get it back. Stiles, it's like I can't trust myself anymore."

He released one of her hands and tucked his index finger under her chin, tilting her head upwards until the tears that blurred her perception of him spilled from the corners of her eyes and cleared her vision.

"Lydia, I trust you."

Just like that, the pain and fury she had observed moments before were gone. The hue of his irises shone brilliantly again, his expression soft, hopeful, and full of confidence. In his beautiful eyes, she saw endless possibility…and it took her breath away.

If Stiles could believe in her, then maybe she could believe in herself again too. And if that were the case, then maybe this time, _they would save each other._

"I trust you," he repeated. "I'm not sure what's going on here, but something doesn't add up... I know you. You wouldn't do this. There has to be some kind of explanation for why you found that boy."

"Like what?" she whispered.

"I don't know yet," he said, pausing to wet his lips, "but I won't stop until we figure it out." Then, he moved his hand to her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"What if we find out something that's even worse than what I'm already imagining?"

With bewildered articulation, he asked, "What could be _worse_ than having _Peter Hale_ in your head?"

The question was posed in all seriousness, but Lydia couldn't help hearing the note of humor it carried. It tickled that sheltered place behind her ribs, and she laughed through the exhale she had been suppressing. As though he just realized what he had done, Stiles cringed. But when Lydia shook her head and smiled bigger, he quietly laughed too. He was so close that the warmth from his breath swept across her cheekbones; kissed by the sensation of butterfly wings, she blushed.

She remembers the familiar spark – the fire growing in her heart – one that was self-sustaining and ever-strengthening, one that made her feel more connected to Stiles every time she was with him. She also remembers the pull towards him, the undeniable desire to be in his arms…because Stiles always held her in ways that felt right.

Lydia rose to her knees and hugged him – letting her body lean into his, feeling the pillowy fabric of his hoodie padding her chin, and breathing the scent of pine needles that wafted up to greet her as their chests swelled and contracted in perfect unison. She felt herself falling slowly into his lap, and it didn't even occur to her to stop…because _it felt so right_.

Stiles pulled her tightly to him. His cheek was pressed flush with hers while one hand cupped the back of her head and the other supported her spine. "It'll be alright. We're gonna get through this. Together. Okay?" he whispered into her ear.

She nodded, her entire body shuddering as relief worked its way through her; same point of origin as the spark, pulsing outwards in every direction with each forceful beat.

"This isn't like…before," he continued. "He's not going to hurt you. Not again. I won't let you down this time. I promise."

With every comforting word, he offered, Lydia felt more at ease, more in control of herself, more implicitly aware that if she were of sound enough mind to trust someone as good as Stiles, then everything would be alright…just like he said.

He held her close for a long time, smoothing her hair and rocking her gently. She felt completely safe and at peace – so much so that she could have stayed in their embrace all night. Lydia remembers wondering what it would be like to fall asleep in Stiles's arms. She had never slept in a boy's arms, but if she did someday, she hoped it would happen with Stiles. She let herself picture it for the very first time…and it was beautiful.

When drowsiness began to overtake her, Lydia couldn't stifle a yawn.

"You tired?" Stiles asked, putting some space between them so he could look at her.

"Yeah," she admitted, ducking her head with embarrassment. "Sorry."

"It's okay. It's been a long night. You should lie down... Try to rest."

She glanced at her side of the bed and nibbled at her bottom lip, then looked to Stiles. "Will you stay…until I fall asleep?"

He smiled timidly. "Yeah, sure."

She crawled out of his lap and nestled on the right side of her body while he arranged the covers, drawing them up to her shoulder before his hand carefully brushed her hair away from her face.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, Lydia."

She gazed into the starlight of his eyes, watched them flare, amber glow against dark brown. When she lifted her hand to the side of his face, he blushed beneath her touch.

"You've never let me down," she told him.

And his smile gleamed as brightly as his eyes.

Lightly caressing his cheek and jaw, she let her hand slide away. When it landed on the bed, next to his, she clasped her fingers around his palm and held his affectionate stare until her eyelids were just too heavy. She let them drift shut, and Stiles's hand tightened around hers while the sound of his steady breaths gradually lulled her to sleep. The last thing Lydia remembers from that night were the words _sweet dreams Lydia_ being carried to her heart by the voice of a friend who was quickly becoming… _more._

* * *

In the morning, when sunlight coaxed Lydia awake, Stiles was gone but the scent of pine needles lingered on her pillow. She blinked her eyes to clarity and stretched her arm across to his side of the bed, where her hand was met by a piece of paper.

Rolling onto her back, she unfolded the note, her heart twinging from the moment she read the greeting...

 _Dear friend,_

 _Didn't want to wake you. Melissa called. She needs to show me something at the hospital._

 _I hope you slept okay. You looked peaceful._

 _Text me if you need a ride to school. Otherwise, I'll meet you by your locker – with coffee._

 _\- Stiles_

 _P.S. Maybe we can finish the movie another time?_

She pressed the note to her chest, smiling and relishing in the rapid thumping beneath her palm. Taking her phone from the nightstand, she tapped out a text that read:

 _Dear friend…_ _I slept well. A ride to school would be great. Can be ready by 8 if you want to get breakfast first. How about finishing the movie on Saturday? Thanks for…everything._

She remembers adding a smiley face emoji…then deleting it…then putting it back and hitting send before she could change her mind again.

After that, Lydia got ready for her day with a renewed energy that reached every cell in her body and felt a lot like hope.

* * *

 **Present Day**

"Lydia... Lydia, are you there? Lydia... _please_ answer me or I'm gonna start to panic over here."

"Huh?"

"What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Sorry...sorry. I'm fine. It's just…something you said reminded me..." she explains, now sitting at the edge of her bed.

"Of what?"

"The first time I fell asleep next to you."

"Oh," he exhaled with relief. "I remember... It was the beginning of junior year. You were so brave and so gorgeous, and I was…a total wreck."

"No, you weren't. You were sweet…and kind…and respectful, and altogether perfect...and I couldn't keep my eyes off you. I still can't."

She hears him laugh through a sniffle, and she pictures his bright eyes and flawless smile.

"Lyds, I wish I was with you right now."

"Well, it _is_ only half past ten... Do you want to come over and watch—"

 _"The Shop Around the Corner?"_ he finishes for her.

"Yeah."

"Definitely. I can be there in fifteen minutes...eight if I ignore all stop signs and speed limits."

"Stiles..." she cautioned, getting up from the bed as if he could see her gesture of protest.

"Come on… There _has_ to be some advantage to being the sheriff's son…other than unlimited access to—"

"Sti—les, just get here...in one piece...and _without_ violating every traffic law known to man."

"Okay, okay. Don't worry," he placates her. "I'll see you in fifteen."

"I'll be in my room. Just use your key."

"Alright." He remains silent for a couple of beats, but she can practically hear the words he is about to verbalize. "Lydia, you know how much I—"

"I know…" she interrupts, "and you can tell me when you get here."

"Okay, I'll wait."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"I do too."

"I know. See you soon."

"Okay. Bye."

She ends the call and eagerly prepares for his arrival. First, she strips off her rose-printed top and picks up her skirt from the floor. She hangs both garments on the closet door as she makes her way into the bathroom where she ties her hair into a topknot and quickly washes her face.

Moving back to the bedroom, she removes her bra and slips into the faded orange and grey baseball tee that she borrowed from Stiles. The one she wore on the night he came back to her, when she went home _with him,_ got into bed _with him,_ and fell asleep _in his arms_. It's worn at the hem and loose at the collar, but it smells like him and the fabric is soft against her skin. She pushes the sleeves up to her elbows, hurries downstairs to make some popcorn and hot cocoa, then cranks the air conditioning a few notches and carries everything to her room on a tray. Lastly, she checks the time and, with three minutes to spare, Lydia pops in the DVD, perches on her bed, and begins scrolling through old pictures of Stiles and herself on her phone.

Shortly after, the front door opens and shuts. She smiles, her stomach clenching with anticipation when Stiles calls up to her.

"Lyds, it's me, babe."

The pleasant sound of his voice is followed by the drum of footsteps bounding up the steps; his dynamic energy promptly reverberating through the entire house. She smiles bigger when she realizes he is taking two steps at a time. By the time she counts to nine, he is brightening her doorway, vibrant grin on his face and a twinkle in his eyes, not even a little out of breath.

"That was the _longest_ drive ever!" he announces, shaking his head as he closes the door behind him and locks it as well. He kicks off his sneakers and leaves them by her dresser.

Lydia hops off the bed. Her limbs act with a will of their own as she rushes across the room and leaps into his open arms, her legs encircling his torso as he lifts her from the floor.

"Hi handsome. I missed you," she tells him.

She takes a minute to admire him, weaving her fingers into the silky strands of his hair and marveling at the feathery shadows that his lashes cast on the skin below his eyes. When she smashes her lips into his, Stiles tightens his arms around her and angles his head to deepen their kiss; lips parted, tongue gliding over hers, little moan rumbling at the back of his throat.

His bottom lip falls away as he breaks from the kiss…just long enough to say, "God, I missed you too – so freaking much," then his mouth rejoins hers with both achingly tender and passionate deliberation before he questions, "How long were we apart? Forty minutes tops?"

"Forty minutes too long," she remarks, kissing his cheekbones over and over and smiling at the responsive heat that flourishes beneath her lips. "You can stay the night… Can't you?"

"Uh-huh," he pants, breath tickling her nose and cheekbones when he asks, "What the hell were we thinking…even _considering_ spending a night apart when clearly we don't have to?"

"I have no idea, but it's not happening again… Right?"

"Not a chance," he confirms, leaning his forehead on hers.

"Good. I've got the movie set up. You wanna get in bed?"

"Yes, absolutely."

Stiles walks them across the room and sits Lydia down on the mattress. She pulls him towards her, hands hastily releasing his belt and unzipping his jeans while he unwinds her topknot. Combing his fingers through her hair, he hunches down to kiss her; every inch of her face and neck until she lets out a frustrated whimper.

"Stiles, help me out here," she nudges him.

"Oh…sorry," he chuckles, nibbling on her earlobe before stepping out of his jeans.

"Shirt on or off?" she inquires through abbreviated breaths.

"It's up to you."

"Definitely off," she quickly decides, gripping the sides of his grey tee shirt.

The sprinkling of tiny kisses that Stiles is consistently gifting to her gets momentarily interrupted when Lydia swiftly glides his shirt up and over his head, leaving him only in navy boxer-briefs.

"There," she smiles proudly, while stroking his chest and abs, "that's much better."

"One sec…" he amends. Taking her by the wrists, Stiles guides Lydia's arms to his neck. Then he scoops her up and comfortably nestles her at the middle of the bed. Lowering his body over hers with a sigh he notes, "Now _that's_ better." He leans down, like he is going to kiss her, but abruptly stops a few inches shy of her face, his eyes shifting to the direction of her nightstand.

"Stiles?"

"You… You made popcorn _and_ hot chocolate?" he asks with a bemused expression.

All of a sudden, it occurs to her that he might not have remembered that detail from the night in her memory. "Yeah…I um…" she replies bashfully.

She is just about to hide her face in his shoulder…or the pillow…anywhere she can avoid eye contact until the embarrassment subsides, but Stiles is a step ahead of her. He gingerly braces his hand to the side of her cheek, keeping her eyes on him.

 _"Lydiaaaa…"_ he coos, "that's what we had that night… This is so sweet. Thank you."

 _He remembered. Of course he did,_ she thinks. And every trace of insecurity evaporates from her body, leaving behind nothing but the salty and sweet aftertaste of a perfect combination.

She smiles up at him, starry-eyed, understanding the wordless _I love you_ that is simmering behind his every touch; fingers tracing the lines of her cheekbones, thumb toying with the corner of her mouth, chest trembling against hers with every breath. When she presses her palms into his shoulder blades, drawing him closer, Stiles accepts the invitation, tip of his nose playfully bumping into hers before his smile collides with hers in slow motion. He travels the length of her throat…down to the swell of her cleavage…then back to her mouth, and she can feel the fire growing, spreading, scorching through her veins, searing an invisible trail of little x's and o's all over her body.

As they stop for a breath, Stiles rolls them onto their sides. His eyes remain closed, lips tinted to a shade of dusty mauve. Lydia cradles his face in both of her hands, coaxing him to look at her. His lids flutter open and she watches the darkness they conceal break with rays of light; perpetual solar eclipses shining in his irises.

With a suggestive smirk on his face, he walks his fingers over the curve of her hip and down the side of her thigh until he reaches the back of her knee to tickle her. Letting out a giggle, Lydia hooks her leg on top of his, and their arms wind around each other in a tight embrace. Every part of her body is connected to his in some way, and it feels so right that she never wants him to let go.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm…"

"Will you hold me while we watch the movie? I love the way you hold me," she tells him, shifting closer.

She is tucked into his neck, and she can't see his face, but she hears the breath get caught in his throat and can sense the emotion quaking beneath the surface of his skin.

He marks her forehead with three quick kisses before answering, "Lyds, I'll hold you for as long as you want. I could do this all night… I could do this forever."

"Good, because I want to fall asleep in your arms too."

"That sounds perfect…but you know…there's one _other thing_ I was hoping we would do together before we go to sleep."

"Is that so?" she laughs softly. "Well, in that case, we should probably start the movie soon…so we can get to that other thing... Think we'll make it the whole way through?"

"Uh…sure," he nods with mock-confidence. Picking up the DVD jacket from the nightstand, he glances at the case. "We can control ourselves long enough to watch an hour and thirty-nine-minute movie… Can't we?"

"Of course, we can," she assures him, quickly smooching his jaw, then sitting up to take a sip of hot cocoa.

Once Stiles locates the remote control and hits _Play_ , they both tuck their legs under Lydia's embroidered quilt and position themselves at the head of the bed, propped on three layers of crisp cotton pillows – pale pink, tan, and printed white. Lydia sets the popcorn on her lap, and when Stiles puts his arm around her, all she can feel is bliss because ever since he came home, it doesn't occur to them to be anything other than _this close_ anymore. She knows he feels it too, because after they gaze at each other for an extended moment, the words she has been looking forward to hearing breeze across his lips.

"Lydia, I love you."

"I love you too, Stiles."

He draws her still nearer, their lips mingling in a whisper of a kiss – fueling the spark. Dizzy with love, she rests her head on his shoulder; warmth of his bare skin heating hers, fragrance of pine needles soothing her soul.

When the popcorn and cocoa are nearly finished, they put everything aside and slide below the covers. Within seconds, they are melded together in perfect comfort; Stiles on his left side and Lydia in front of him, his arms looped around her waist and her back leaning on his chest. Each time the phrase "dear friend" echos from the television, Stiles squeezes Lydia a little tighter. His steady breaths are caressing her earlobe and neck, his heart is thudding against her spine, and his body of lean, taut muscles is supporting her. Her beats sync up with his, and she can't help but press into him a little more, so she can feel their connection in all its intensity.

About halfway through the movie, his hand wanders to her leg, pads of his fingers trailing up and down the inside of her thigh. Her stomach cinches up, then slackens with heat, and she gives in to the burning desire she has for him.

Looking at him over her shoulder, she suggests, "Maybe we should finish this another time?"

"That works for me," he says eagerly, his face alight with happiness and love.

Stiles stops the DVD, Lydia turns out the lights, and their lips find each other in the darkness.

* * *

The following morning, Lydia awakens from a peaceful sleep, enveloped in heavenly the embrace of Stiles's arms…and they finish the movie for the second time, _together._


	12. Too Much Perfection

I will love you in forgiveness given  
and apologies accepted.  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

They are sitting on the floor of her bedroom on a Tuesday night. After what seems like an eternity of silence, but could only have been seconds, she hears his voice.

"How long have you known about this?" Stiles inquires.

"A week," Lydia replies quietly. Her insides shudder, and embarrassment rises in a prickling heat at the nape of her neck.

His head is down, so she can't see his eyes, but she regretfully pictures them widening with hurt. She can see the disappointment in the sideways slant of his shoulders, and hears it altering the inflection of every syllable when he says, "Wow… Were you ever going to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," she weakly points out, placing her hands on his thighs.

He doesn't pull away, but he also doesn't place his hands on top of hers to return the contact, _like he always does_. Her stomach plummets; an exaggerated version of the sinking feeling she gets in an elevator, when it drops to a lower level.

"But if I hadn't been pushing all night for you to talk to me about what's been bothering you..."

"I still would have told you."

"When?" he questions, head suddenly lifting, wounded expression on his face.

"After..."

"After what?"

"After he was gone."

"So…you didn't want me to be there."

Her hands squeeze his thighs, and his muscles tense beneath her grip.

"It's not that I didn't want you there. I just thought...it would be better if you weren't," she admits over a tightly constricting throat.

"I'm not hearing a real distinction there, Lyds." He slides back and grabs his sneakers.

She quickly rises to her knees. "What are you—Where are you going?"

"I think I should go for a walk."

"But—but it's nearly midnight."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," he retorts as he finishes tying his laces with obvious frustration before getting up from the floor.

She scrambles to stand in front of him. "Stiles, please wait. I—"

He looks _so hurt,_ and she is disgusted with herself for being the cause. His wordless stare incites a series of reactions throughout her body. Her eyes water, stomach twists, chest tightens, and hands shake as she reaches for the edge of his shirt.

"Stiles...I'm sorry."

He opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it, then side-steps her and moves towards the door.

"Please, _just try to understand how hard this is for me!"_ she cries out.

"I _am_ trying," he snips, volume elevating slightly. Then he lets out a huff and turns, taking a few strides towards her and setting one hand at her waist.

"I had a good reason to keep it to myself. At least…it seemed like a good reason in my head. Don't you want to hear what that is?"

"Yeah, I do… But first, I think I should get some air...clear my head."

"Stiles..." she gasps over the pinching tension in her larynx, "I wasn't trying to hurt you."

He inches closer and lightly brushes his lips against her forehead. A shadow of a sound emerges when he speaks. "I know."

"But I did anyway… Didn't I?" she chokes out.

"Yeah."

One syllable. One syllable that is like a knife to her heart. One syllable that confirms her worst nightmare – _she hurts Stiles_ , even when she doesn't mean to.

She wants to cry, to plead with him to stay, but she won't let herself. She knows that if she does, there is no way Stiles will walk out the door. She can't do that to him. She can't make this all about her. She loves him too much. If he needs space from her right now, she has to let him get it, so she blinks back her tears and swallows the lump in her throat.

Lydia counts to ten, then nods in defeat, discreetly trying to lean into him. "Where are you gonna go?" she asks, her voice shrunken with shame. When she no longer feels his lips on her skin, her eyes reflexively search for his.

"I don't know... Not far."

The quiver in his tone resonates in the deepest parts of her soul.

"Are you going to come back?" she manages to whisper.

He briefly closes his eyes. _"Of course_ I am."

Lydia hangs her head and exhales the breath she has been holding.

"I just need some time," he continues, hooking his index finger under her chin to encourage her to look at him. "Okay?"

"Okay," she agrees, almost inaudibly.

He gingerly touches his lips to her trembling ones, then quietly leaves the room.

Lydia hesitates mere seconds before following Stiles, but when she gets to the top of the staircase, he is already at the front door. She watches him go, then she sits at the top step, hands curled around the banister as she finally lets herself cry; sloppy wet droplets splashing on her knees and even spilling over the railing…down to the first floor below.

The echoes of her sobs are amplified in the cavernous space, assaulting her from every angle, making her painfully aware of how empty the house is without Stiles. Her heart is pounding at a furious pace. She tries to get control of herself, catch her breath, remind herself that he is coming back, but all she wants is to rewind the clock, have another chance to make the right choice, stop herself from making such a stupid mistake.

She's cold and shaky all over, like being sick with a fever – the kind that embeds itself inside bone and chills from the inside out. Her small frame quakes but it does nothing to replenish her body heat. She gasps and goes silent.

After a while, the faint jingle of a bell along with a tiny impression of heat on the skin of her leg, lures Lydia's attention. Loosening her hold on the polished walnut spindles, she notices the color returning to her knuckles. She turns her head to find that Prada is beside her; front paws resting with feather-light pressure on Lydia's knee, normally perky ears plastered down, tail fanning low, from side to side. She has the new ball that Stiles bought her cupped in her mouth, and she drops it in Lydia's lap.

Lydia squeaks out a laugh and gathers the pup into her arms, nuzzling her nose in the silky mane behind her neck. She takes the ball from her lap and gets up, carrying Prada and her toy to the bedroom where she sets them both on the bench at the foot of her bed. She checks the time. Twelve minutes have passed since Stiles left. Running her hands through her hair, she can feel her impatience growing.

Ten more minutes later, Lydia is nervously pacing her room. She can't wait a minute longer.

Not bothering to change out of her pajamas, she slips on a pair of flats and tucks her keys and phone into her pocket. She glances at Prada who is poised to follow her.

"Prada, stay," she instructs her.

The pup obediently sits and lets out a clipped whine.

"I'll be back soon," she tells her before closing the door behind her and bounding down the stairs.

She hurries through the foyer, nothing but thoughts of Stiles on her mind, propelled by love and an aching desire to make things right with him. As she nears the front entrance, an intense warmth flows through her – the kind that emanates from one specific source, the kind she can't live without. Lydia swings open the front door and her entire body jolts.

Stiles is standing on the other side, one hand hovering over the doorbell, the other behind his back...and she remembers.

 _She remembers one night, during sophomore year, when Stiles appeared at her door..._

* * *

 __It was another one of those nights – the kind she had been experiencing more frequently than not. Lydia remembers that she was already ahead with her assignments for all of her classes. She had given herself a much-needed manicure, selected an outfit to wear to school the next day, and even reorganized her jewelry box, but she was still restless to the point of vexation.

She remembers looking at Prada, who was asleep beside her. A pang of envy worked its way through her as she contemplated her pup's ability to rest so peacefully. Lydia hadn't slept peacefully in months. She huffed out a sigh and gave the black and white Papillon a kiss before getting up from the bed. Sitting at her vanity, she put on a pair of ankle boots and checked her reflection in the mirror, meticulously swiping at some mascara that had strayed below her lash-line.

On the way out of her bedroom, Lydia grabbed her phone and keys, stuffing both into the pockets of her cream-colored sweater. Just as she was about to let her mother know she was going for a walk, Lydia realized that Natalie was out for the evening…again. She rolled her eyes and descended the steps, her heels echoing atop hardwood the entire way.

As she approached the front of the house, a strange, yet familiar sensation struck her – a heady kind of warmth that she only ever felt in the presence of one person. It made her hesitate briefly, but she tried to shrug it off. She opened the door…and found that Stiles was standing on the other side, one hand hovering over the doorbell, the other behind his back.

A gust of cool air breezed past her, and she froze in place as his expressive brown eyes first widened, then blinked with surprise.

"Uh…hey, Lydia."

His unexpected visit had her on the verge of a smile, but then she remembered that she was mad at him, so she pursed her lips instead.

Glaring at him suspiciously, she asked, "Stiles, what are you doing here?"

The question was articulated far more harshly than she intended, but he had startled her…and she had a miserable day…and her stomach was already beginning to do _that thing_ it did whenever he was around. That rapid fluttery thing that made her feel like someone was pulling the ground out from beneath her feet.

"I was hoping I could talk to you."

"About what?"

He looked directly in her eyes when he said, "I want to apologize for the other night."

 _Oh, that._ The other night being the night he found her crying in her car, then proceeded to insist that she tell him what was wrong, only to abruptly leave her…just when she was going to open up to him about the inner turmoil she had been struggling to express for weeks. The night he promised he would come back to talk to her in _five minutes_ …and then ditched her – with no explanation.

"You could have called."

"Right... I probably should have but—"

Lydia remembers that she didn't want Stiles to know how hurt she was. Nothing good could come of that, so she tilted her head up and shrugged one shoulder. "It was no big deal," she interrupted, doing her best to present an air of indifference.

"It was—It _is_ to me," he corrected, taking a step forward as he poked at his chest with his fingertips. "You were upset, and I really wanted to be there for you. I know I said I would come right back—"

"People say things they don't mean all the time," she interrupted once more.

Except she thought Stiles was different. He was always so nice to her…even when she didn't deserve it. She was starting to believe that he really cared for her…but maybe she had been wrong. A sharp pinching sensation nipped behind her rib cage each time she inhaled, making it hard to breathe. Her eyes stung a bit, so she crossed her arms and refocused on the space beyond his shoulder, where she caught sight of his Jeep parked by the curb.

"But I _did_ mean it," he asserted. "I promised you, and I had every intention of keeping that promise but I got…held up…at school. By the time I got back, you were gone."

"You said five minutes. I waited for half an hour."

"Lydia, I'm _really_ sorry."

There was something about the way he said those words that appealed to her on a visceral level. Something that was real, and honest, and pure. It was something that separated Stiles from any other boy she talked to, something that made her want to believe him, but scared her a little bit too.

She remembers that when she gathered the courage to let her eyes meet his again, his left arm carefully moved from behind his back, revealing a petite bouquet of delicate white sweet peas that were tied with a lavender satin ribbon. The one she tucked into the drawer of her jewelry box later that evening…and which has remained there ever since.

"You brought me flowers?" she asked, more than a bit stunned. No boy had ever done that for her.

"Yeah," he answered, right side of his mouth elevating a tad.

While Lydia stared at the bouquet, Stiles adjusted his grip on the stems and transferred his weight from one foot to the other.

There was an acute tightness in her throat. It was difficult to speak, but she managed to respond, "They're beautiful, but you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," he interjected softly before extending the blossoms towards her with remorseful comportment; eyebrows cinched together, cheeks tinged pink, lips in a straight line.

Observing him carefully, she searched for a tell – anything that would indicate that he was being less than sincere, but she couldn't find one. All she saw was the honest face of the boy who had pleaded with her to confide in him a few nights earlier. She remembers the hopeful gleam that flickered in his eyes, like he was just waiting for her to recognize what was inside of him – something he had probably been trying to show her every time he looked at her.

Lydia accepted the flowers, her hand grazing his as her palm and digits looped around the stems. Suddenly, it was a great deal easier to breathe.

"Thank you," she told him with noticeable gentleness in her tone. She remembers realizing that they were still standing in the doorway. "Do you want to come in?"

"Uh...weren't you going somewhere?"

"I was just going for a walk. I'm not even sure why…" she trailed off.

"Oh. Did you still want to do that?"

"I guess." She glanced into the house as she pondered her next statement, then shifted her eyes back to his. "You could come with me…if you want. I mean…unless you have somewhere else to be."

His brows lifted considerably, lips scrunching together. "Nope. Nowhere."

"Is that a yes?"

A shy grin slowly spread across his mouth. "Yes."

The restlessness that she had been burdened with all day was dissipating, and she smiled.

"Okay, I'll just go put these in some water."

She ticked her head towards the left, and he followed her into the house, closing the door behind them.

Together, they walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Lydia went to the cabinet adjacent to the sink and stretched up on the tips of her toes to reach for a vase that was stored on its top shelf.

Within seconds, she heard Stiles offer, "Here… Let me help you."

She remembers the swishing noise his jacket made as he moved to stand behind her and the whispers of his exhales caressing the crown of her head. One of his hands grasped the countertop on the left side of her waist, the other connected with the vase which was a couple of inches past her range. They both stilled before Lydia rocked back onto her heels and turned around. Stiles was barely a breath away from her, and that feeling she had been getting in the center of her stomach flared up and spread like wildfire.

She stared at him for a minute, heavenly scent of sweet peas from the bouquet she was clutching filling her lungs. "Thanks," she said in a hushed tone, taking the vase from him when he held it out to her.

Their fingers touched again. This time, hers immediately warmed from the contact between them.

"Y—You're welcome," he stuttered, blushing deeper, then backing up to lean against the island.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and spun towards the sink to fill the vase with water. Rolling her eyes at herself, she wondered when she became such a poor excuse for a hostess.

"Do you want anything to eat or drink? The fridge is fully stocked…"

"Oh, um… No thanks."

She could feel his eyes on her, so she nodded and stood beside him, setting the vase on the marble countertop. After carefully unraveling the ribbon from the flowers and tying it in a bow around the vase, she took a scissors from the drawer, gave the stems a trim, and began to arrange the ruffled white blossoms, one by one.

"Lydia?"

"Hmm…"

"What's your favorite flower?"

His question caught her off-guard. She bit her lip, battling the wave of nerves that surged through her body so she could reply, "Well…honestly, I have a lot of favorites. Sweet peas happen to be one of them…"

She remembers how her eyes sought him out. Just a quick glance, but it was long enough to catch sight of the way Stiles was smiling, and it helped her relax.

"What other kinds?"

"Um…peonies and dahlias too."

"But if you had to pick one…" he led.

"There's a type of rose, called _Sterling_. They're rare, but my neighbor grows them in her garden and sometimes, in early summer when they first bloom, she brings me a bouquet."

"What do they look like?"

"They're this pale lavender color…and they don't have any thorns…and they smell like… Actually, there's nothing I can compare it to. They smell like perfection. They're almost too perfect…sometimes they don't seem real." Catching herself rambling, she stopped fiddling with the flowers. "Sorry… I could have said that in a lot fewer words."

When she risked another peek at Stiles, his gaze was curious and attentive.

"Why would you want to do that? You looked so happy just then…"

Her eyes widened. She wasn't expecting him to say that…but then again, Stiles had a tendency to respond to her in ways she didn't anticipate. Sometimes it was as though he could read her mind or see directly into her heart…what was left of it. Lydia wasn't used to feeling so exposed with anyone, and she wondered if it was something she would ever get used to.

"I did?" she asked.

"Yeah, you did. Didn't you feel it?"

Her mouth involuntarily twitched into a half-smile, and she nodded sending a single tear, that she didn't even realize had formed, rolling down her cheek. She was about to wipe it away, but Stiles hesitantly lifted his hand…and she froze again. Her body rushed, and she watched in awe as he dabbed at the droplet with his thumb in a tender, nearly imperceptible touch.

"If something makes you happy, you should talk about it as much as you like," he told her, letting his hand fall to his side.

Still speechless, she exhaled a breath that reshaped her lips into a full smile. The one he gave her in return brightened the space they shared, and somehow, the roller coaster of emotion she was going through suddenly seemed worth it.

"How about that walk?" Lydia suggested.

"Sure. Sounds good."

She cleaned up the counter and relocated the vase so that it was a safe distance from the edge. Then she took the keys from the pocket of her sweater with one hand and his wrist with the other, leading him back to the foyer.

They stepped onto the porch, and Lydia locked the door behind them. Her stomach sank with disappointment when Stiles wriggled out of her grasp, but that disappointment was swiftly replaced with delight when his palm and fingers surrounded hers. Lydia's eyes were instantly drawn to his face. As she looked up at him, he was nibbling on his bottom lip, like he was worried he had made a mistake. She remembers giving his hand a light squeeze, hoping to let him know it was okay. His posture relaxed, and she pursed her lips so she wouldn't smile too big.

Outside it was damp and cool, murmur of wind swirling through the budding branches of the trees. They walked quietly for a bit, her boots clicking on the sidewalk, his jacket rustling against her sweater, and their joined hands swinging slightly as they moved forward together. Lydia remembers how good it felt to have Stiles holding her hand. It was natural, the way their digits aligned – a perfect fit, and she liked the way his thumb occasionally stroked her index finger, apparently for no other reason than maybe it felt good to him too.

Once they started talking, neither of them had trouble keeping up their end of the conversation. There was something surprisingly calm about Stiles in those moments. He rambled less often and wasn't fidgeting the way he usually did. His steady presence grounded her, allowed her mind to focus on details, like the way he slowed the cadence of his steps to match hers, the pleasant softness in his voice, and how frequently he turned to glance at her. She found herself mesmerized by the image of their moon-cast shadows; side by side, so little space between them.

Everything was comfortable and easy…until the topic of school came up. Then, Lydia was reminded of what Stiles had said to her when he first arrived, and her irritation crawled out from its hiding place. She knew there was more to the story. Lately, that always seemed to be the case – not only with Stiles, with everyone.

She waited for a break in the conversation, then promptly seized the opportunity. "What did you mean before?"

"Huh?"

"You said you were held up at school. Held up how?"

When Stiles didn't respond, Lydia stopped walking and tugged on his hand. He stopped a few paces ahead, then turned to face her but remained silent.

"Was it one of the teachers? Was Mr. Harris giving you a hard time again? Is that why you don't want to tell me? Because listen, I know I wasn't exactly…helpful when he was picking on you in chemistry yesterday, but I didn't mean… I was just annoyed…"

Shaking his head, he told her, "Lydia, it's okay. I know you were pissed at me...and you had every right to be. Harris has hated me since the first day of school. I'm used to it."

"But he can't treat you like—"

"He wasn't the reason I didn't come back. It was nothing like that."

"Then what? _What_ is the big secret that everyone except me seems to know?"

"Lydia, I…"

"Stiles, just tell me. We're supposed to be friends… Aren't we?"

"Of course we are. _We are_ …but I can't…" He threw his head back in frustration and looked up at the black sky. "It's…it's…complicated."

She narrowed her eyes. "God, I am _so sick_ of people telling me that," she gritted through her teeth. "First, Allison…now, _you too."_

"It's not that I don't want to tell you. I do. I really, _really_ do but it's not up to me."

Her lips began to tremble, and she started to recoil so he wouldn't see, but Stiles tightened his grip on her hand, and she stopped.

"Lydia, wait… Let me…" He briefly closed his eyes, then inched forward and reached for her other hand with a pained expression on his face. "Please, give me a chance.

She thought about pulling away, but everything about Stiles made her want to trust him, so she risked letting him see her cry again and decided to hear him out.

"I'm listening."

He relinquished a long slow breath and wet his lips. "Okay…hypothetically speaking… If you saw someone who was in trouble somehow…I dunno…let's say they were drowning…you'd stop to help them. Wouldn't you?"

"Yeah…so… What's your point?"

"Well that's how it was. There was this situation…where I had to help someone. I couldn't just let what was happening, happen. You know? And I wanted to get back to you, like _so much,_ but I couldn't."

They were standing an arm's length apart, but Stiles shifted closer, stepping out of the diffused shadows that concealed him and shrinking the distance between them until his features were completely illuminated by moonlight. Lydia remembers the appearance of his skin; pale and smooth, colored crimson below his cheekbones, and dotted with a series of moles that mimicked the beautifully random configuration of stars above their heads.

He sucked in another breath before continuing, "I really wish I could promise nothing like that will ever happen again, but…I can't be sure of that, and I won't lie to you. I just want you to understand that if it were to happen…if I were to have to leave you in the middle of something important, it would only be because I didn't have a choice…because there was no other option… _at all._ It would _never_ be because I'd rather be somewhere else or that I don't care about you…because I wouldn't and I do…so much. I really am sorry, Lydia."

She gawked at Stiles; astonished and overwhelmed by the genuine emotion he conveyed. It wasn't difficult to believe that he had been helping someone who was in trouble. Stiles was always looking out for people – Scott, Allison, his dad…her. She observed his eyes, which were woven with fine gold threads that glinted with a fascinating kind of light. She saw no ulterior motive, not a shred of deceit or manipulation – nothing but care and an earnest regard for her feelings. His words had been simple, but each syllable carried a note of passionate sincerity. Lydia remembers being _so sure_ that Stiles was telling her the truth. _He had to be._ In her nearly sixteen years, Lydia had been presented with enough empty apologies to last a lifetime. She could recognize them right away, and what Stiles had just offered shared no resemblance with any of those hollow manipulations. Maybe there was more to the story, but she believed that he had explained as much as he possibly could, and that meant something to her. She remembers thinking that, for the first time in her life, she had received a genuine apology…and for some reason, it made perfect sense that it had come from _Stiles._

"Lydia, please say something."

"Okay."

"Okay?" he questioned, brows arched, mouth slightly agape.

"Okay, I believe you."

"You do?" he asked, clutching her hands more firmly.

"You've never given me a reason not to. So…yeah."

"And we're good then? You forgive me?"

"Yes, I forgive you."

"Thank you," he sighed, bowing his head a bit and staring at their hands while he rolled his thumbs across her knuckles.

They looked at each other for a long moment, then Lydia spoke. "I should get back. Prada's alone. She was sleeping, but I don't like leaving her like that."

"Can I walk you?"

"Yeah."

He released her left hand but maintained hold of her right, and together they walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

When they climbed the steps to the porch, Lydia unlocked the door and hesitated.

Stiles traced the side of her index finger with his thumb one last time. "I guess…" he paused to clear his throat, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, see you then."

He nodded and let go of her hand but then, as he had already done several other times that night, Stiles did something Lydia didn't expect – he leaned in and wrapped both of his arms around her, bringing her into a hug…for the very first time.

Lydia tensed with surprise for a split second, but the contact felt so good that instead of resisting it, she hugged him back; arms encircling the middle of his torso, left hand clasping her right wrist to keep him from drifting away.

And it was _perfect._

She remembers how complete it felt, how every part of him seemed to be reshaping around her, and how every part of her reshaped around him as well. She remembers how good he smelled and that, while the fabric of his jacket was cold beneath her chin, his cheek was warm against hers. His hands were spread across her back, pressing into her in a reassuring way, and the fronts of his sneakers bumped the tips of her boots when their bodies shifted closer. Lydia remembers the fast-paced thud that pulsed at the place where their rib cages met, and she remembers not being sure if it was Stiles or herself. When she considered that maybe it was both of them, her head started swimming with questions, but her heart suddenly didn't feel as tattered as it usually did.

The evening air was quick to occupy the space between them when they parted. Lydia felt a twinge of sadness, but Stiles tossed her a sweet lopsided grin and she smiled unreservedly.

"Good night, Lydia," he said in a soft, captivating tone.

"G'night, Stiles."

While she stood by the door and watched him walk to his Jeep, all Lydia could think about was the fact that the hug Stiles gave her was different from any other she had experienced. It was as frightening as it was exhilarating to be so affected by someone, but she hoped if it happened enough times…maybe she would get used to it.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia blinks back tears. "I was just coming to look for you," she breathes as a humid summer gale rushes past her face.

"You found me," Stiles replies, raising his eyebrows and quirking his mouth to one side.

"How come you were going to ring the bell instead of using your key?"

"I didn't think I should just let myself in…you know…after being such an insensitive jerk."

"Stiles, you weren't," she assures him, pausing when his left arm slides out from behind his back and he timidly extends a perfect lavender rose towards her. She reaches across the threshold to accept the flower. Electricity travels up her arm as their fingers intertwine over the long stem. "It's beautiful," she remarks, swallowing the aching lump in her throat.

"Not nearly as beautiful as you," he tells her, squeezing their joined hands.

Muted by the loving and tender way Stiles regards her, even after she hurt him, Lydia closes her eyes and ducks her head. Her stomach clenches when she feels the familiar touch of his fingertips under her chin, tilting her head up and coaxing her to look at him.

"Can I come in?" he asks softly, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb.

"Of course you can," Lydia answers, fervently nodding.

With her free hand she grabs the fabric of his black tee shirt, then she walks backwards into the foyer, towing Stiles with her as she closes the door. The foot or so of space between them is far too much, so she shrinks the gap, standing in front of him. She releases his shirt and curls her hand around his shoulder.

"I...um...I wanted to buy you a whole bouquet... Would you believe there are no 24-hour flower shops in Beacon Hills?"

"Where did you get this rose then?"

"The house on the corner," he confesses with a wry smile while gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "You know...the one that looks like a fortress with the wrought-iron fence all around it."

"You mean Mrs. Saunders's house?"

His hand finds its place on her hip when he says, "Yeah, I was walking past...and these reminded me of you. She's got a whole garden-full of them. I figured she wouldn't miss this one... I mean, technically it was growing through the fence...so..."

Lydia stifles a weak laugh. "She'll notice. This is one of her prize _Sterling_ roses. You're lucky she didn't see you. I hate to think what she'd do if she had."

"I'm sure I could have outrun her," he retorts with a wink.

Her heart flutters irregularly – the same way it always does when he winks at her – sending all the love she has for him coursing through her veins.

Caressing his face, she steps still closer. "What you did is very sweet...though quite possibly a criminal offense..."

"You're worth the risk," he interjects, countenance growing serious.

"But Stiles, I don't need flowers. All I need is you."

"Lydia..." he sighs.

Several hot tears slip down her cheeks. Stiles is looking at her with such intensity, such longing, such love. His eyes are glossy and tired, his cheeks flushed, lips falling into a pout….and her need for him tugs so fiercely at her heart that she thinks he might pull it right out of her chest. She hears him whisper her name once more, and before she can blink, she is enveloped in his arms. Her entire body relaxes into his, glorious sensation of his perfect embrace surrounding her with warmth.

In between a series of kisses, which she stamps along his jaw and neck, she apologizes whole-heartedly, "Stiles, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"So am I," he quivers, squeezing her tightly to him and repeatedly pressing his lips to her shoulder.

"It was all my fault. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Yes, I do. I shouldn't have left. For what it's worth, I regretted it the second I walked out the door. I spent the rest of the time walking up and down the block, searching for flower shops on my phone."

"It's worth a lot."

He repositions his hands to support her spine and leans back to look at her. "Your nose is red. Have you been crying all this time?" he frowns.

She nods, and Stiles kisses her nose.

"Lydia, I didn't want that. I never want that. If I had it to do over, I would have just stayed with you… I'd have just stayed with you and held you until we figured everything out."

One of her hands is still holding the rose he gave her, the other grips his bicep. Somehow even with the mid-line of their bodies connected, they aren't close enough, so she presses into him more deliberately.

"I don't blame you for being angry with me…for needing space from me."

"That's not it – not at all. I _never_ want to be away from you," he assures her as he kisses her forehead, "and I wasn't angry. I was hurt, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing. It's just…everything has been so good between us. We've been so honest with each other...and then...this kind of blindsided me. I know that talking about your father isn't easy for you, but when you keep things from me...things that affect you so much..."

"I know. It won't happen again. Stiles, hurting you is the worst thing I can imagine. I hate that I did that. I should have told you as soon as I knew."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I convinced myself I wasn't even going to have to see him. He's only coming here because he happens to have a business meeting scheduled in Sacramento, and when my mom mentioned you, he got curious…" she explains with a sniffle. "I haven't seen him in over a year, and now he thinks he can just show up and pretend to be my dad...you know...act like his opinion matters to me or that we need his approval or something. I wasn't going to give him the sick satisfaction of being a jerk to you, so when he called last week, I told him not to come. I thought that would be the end of it…but then this morning, he left a message saying that his flight already landed...and he's driving here tomorrow. I'm supposed to meet him for dinner, whether I like it or not."

"And that's why you've been on edge all day."

"Yes. It was tearing me up to keep it from you...but I knew if I told you, then you would want to be there for me."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," she guarantees him, sneaking her fingers under the sleeve of his shirt in search of more contact. "Everything is right with it...except...this time it scares me."

He lifts a hand to smooth her hair back. "Why?"

"Because being around my father brings out the worst in me. I feel like a different person when he is around…someone that I don't like – the person I was in freshman and sophomore year."

"That's why you didn't want me to go with you?" His jaw drops, and he shakes his head in disbelief. "Aww, Lydia... C'mere," he directs her, keeping one arm around her as he walks her to the stairs. Then, he sits down on one of the lower steps and brings her into his lap. Winding both of his arms around her, Stiles imprints a kiss on her temple and speaks gently to her. "Don't you get it by now? I love everything about you, not just the parts you are comfortable with."

"But what if..." she begins timorously.

"What if what?"

"What if you see that part of me again, and you start thinking you made a mistake?"

"A mistake?"

"In ever falling for me in the first place," she admits, glancing down at the rose he gave her, feeling more fragile than the delicate petals that have unfolded from its center.

Stiles cups her face in his palm, nudging her to meet his gaze. "How could the best thing in my life ever be a mistake?" he questions with bewilderment.

When he leans in to kiss her, the breath catches in her throat. It's been less than thirty minutes since his lips were on hers, but it may as well have been a lifetime. A lifetime of agony spent fearing the worst – that her nagging instinct to withhold could cost her the love of her life.

She whimpers when Stiles parts his lips from hers, but she knows he has more to say, so she listens.

"Baby, every day – every single day – I fall deeper in love with you. Nothing is going to change that."

"Even today?"

"Especially today, because...you were afraid, but you still told me."

"But you practically had to drag it out of me...and you shouldn't have to do that."

"Hey, being so open isn't easy all the time. I know that, and I'm willing to work for it."

"I'm really sorry I tried to keep this from you. It was stupid. It's like this awful reflex I have. I try not to let it control me, but sometimes I fail…miserably. It doesn't mean that I'm not committed to you, _to us."_

"I know that. I never doubted it. And listen, even though I hope you tell me everything, I understand there are things you might want to keep to yourself. But I need you to talk to me about the big things – especially the things that hurt you here," he clarifies, placing his palm over her heart, "because if you don't, then I can't help you. Okay?"

"I promise, I will. Do you forgive me?" she asks quietly.

"Of course I do. Lydia, I could forgive you anything." He nuzzles her cheek with his nose. "What about you? Do you forgive me?"

"Yes. I could forgive you anything too."

Drawing her into a hug, he reminds her heart how to beat at their rhythm by peppering kisses on her neck and eases the lingering tension in her body by rubbing her back. She squeezes him with every ounce of strength she has, letting the warmth he inspires chase the last traces of cold from her bones. They stay locked in each other's arms for a while longer before Lydia speaks.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm…"

She arches back so she can see his beautiful eyes. "Will you stay tonight?"

"Yes."

"And will you get in bed with me, and hold me the way you do...so I can listen to your heart until I fall asleep?"

"Uh-huh."

She smooths her hand over his chest and kisses the corner of his mouth. "In the morning, when we wake up...will you make love to me?"

"Mmm..." he moans affectionately against her lips. "Yes, absolutely."

"And in the afternoon when I start freaking out about seeing my father...will you talk to me, and tell me that I'll get through it, and that everything's going to be okay?"

"It _is_ going to be okay."

"And...even though I screwed up...will you come with me to have dinner, and hold my hand, and never let go?"

"I will. I always want to be there for you. All you have to do is let me."

Lydia leans closer, and Stiles greets her without reluctance. They've shared countless kisses since their locker room reunion, but _still_ the familiar contact feels new – as though it's intrinsically linked to years of untapped emotion. In the midst of such tenderness, slow burning desire awakens a desperate fiery need, reshaping their lips in a passionate entanglement, until they are both panting for oxygen.

His chest heaves against hers, and she clings to him, braving the flames of an all-consuming love while they gradually calm to a more manageable degree.

"I love you so much – so much, Stiles."

"I love you too. I always will."

She rests her head on his shoulder, relief flowing through every cell in her body. "I was so afraid when you weren't here. I thought I ruined everything."

"Lyds, you didn't ruin anything. That's not even possible. This is _you and me_ we're talking about – the ones with the pull-you-back-from-the-brink-of-death, open-portals-in-time-and-space, can't-live-without-you kind of love, and I'm not going to just give up on us because we had a fight. You _have_ to believe that."

"I do, but I still get scared sometimes because…being with you feels like a dream." Lifting her head to look at him, she questions, "Do you have any idea how perfect you are?"

He furrows his brows. "I'm not. I—"

She puts her finger to his lips. "Yes, _you are,"_ she insists before sealing her words with a kiss. "And these past three weeks...every minute we've been together…it's been perfect. Maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe it's too much perfection."

"Is there such a thing as too much perfection?"

"I don't know…but sometimes I wonder if I'm allowed to have anything so good. I'm not sure I deserve you."

Eyes puddling with emotion, he gives her a signature upside-down smile and swallows with visible strain. "Can I let you in on a secret?"

"Yeah."

"I worry about the same thing…at least once a day. But the truth is Lydia, we don't have to worry – neither of us – because we're perfect for each other. Everything these past three weeks has only proved what I already hoped."

"You might not think that...after tomorrow..."

"Hey, no more of that. You're not getting rid of me that easily. You're stuck with me...permanently... We're talking stronger than super glue level of adhesive…better yet, chemically bonded."

She laughs through the last mist of tears that hinder her vision. "I love being stuck with you," she informs him, bringing the flower he gave her to her nose and taking in its sweet scent.

"Good, because I plan on staying this way...like forever."

"Me too." Lydia kisses his forehead, letting her lips linger while his hands wander under her tank top.

"You wanna go upstairs now?" Stiles asks.

"Yes."

Getting up from his lap, she takes his hand, and they ascend the steps together.

When they are about halfway up, she stops. "Stiles..." she calls, grazing the side of his face with the rose.

He smiles, and his eyes gleam with the brilliance of the brightest star in the heavens.

"I don't think I can wait until morning..." she tells him.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he answers, lifting their joined hands to his lips and kissing her fingertips.

Together, they make their way through the darkened hallway that leads to Lydia's bedroom. Together, they find their way back to the unparalleled comfort they have always shared…in another perfect embrace.


	13. Hold Your Breath

On the edge of it all  
Face the fire, let it come  
On the edge of it all  
Hold your breath, don't let go  
\- Hold Your Breath by Ruelle

* * *

The next morning, Lydia wakes when sunlight filters through her linen window-shades with a hazy pink glow. The panes are partially opened, welcoming an ethereal summer breeze. It sweeps into the space, billowing through the fabric that adorns her canopy bed and carrying the sweet fragrance of a perfect _Sterling_ rose, which is now vased on her nightstand. She is blanketed under the cover of cotton sheets and the boy she loves – _Stiles._

He is still asleep with his forehead leaning into the crook of her neck and his right arm draped over her. His bare skin is hot against hers, and his eyelashes are tickling her collar bone. Each time he inhales, she relishes in the increased pressure of his chest on hers. Each time he exhales, she savors the feeling of his breath caressing her skin, leaving a lingering warmth behind.

Eyes blurry with sleep, Lydia repeatedly blinks to clear them, determined not to move or let go of Stiles. Not yet – not when they are so close that he feels like an extension of her own body.

When the mist clears, she catches sight of lavender satin – the ribbon that she has cherished for more than two years. It's neatly laid out on her dresser. Hours earlier, she had showed it to Stiles. He listened while she explained that it was tied to the sweet peas he gave her in sophomore year. He smiled when she said that she kept it because it was from him – the first and only boy to ever bring her flowers. His eyes filled with tears when she told him that he was also the first person to ever give her a sincere apology and that although she knew hers paled in comparison, she hoped it meant as much to him. He assured her that it did. They kissed, and the spark that had ignited while they were making up quickly rekindled. They fed the flames – kissing again and again, until their need for each other drove them further into the depths of an ardent embrace. Hearts ablaze in the unifying presence of each other's love, they left a trail of clothing behind and giggled their way through a few minor stumbles as they found themselves falling slowly into bed. Their eyes locked in the diffused silver light of the waning moon, whole bodies connected, limbs tangled, only the sounds of whispered words, rustling sheets, and a series of gasping moans elevating through the silence. There was a different kind of yearning – something that reflected in the way hands gripped a little tighter than usual, thrusts met a little sharper, and lip contact packed more pressure. They both held their breath when she tightened around him, and he continued to pulse inside of her…until they were both trembling with unrestrained pleasure. Then Stiles held Lydia…just like he promised he would. She listened to his heart as it decelerated from a rapid, bliss-induced throb to a slower, contented thump that eventually lulled her to sleep.

Before dawn, their bodies shifted when he spoke her name in a drowsy voice that told her he sought comfort from the rhythm of her heartbeats too. She has been holding onto him ever since - one of her hands pressed to the three tiny moles at the center of his spine and the other resting on the crown of his head. Her fingers gently stroke his hair, and he sighs softly, nuzzling deeper into their embrace and encouraging a kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach.

 _Hold your breath,_ she tells herself. She isn't ready to wake him. Not yet.

Less than one month ago, Lydia could only dream of holding Stiles like this. _He was gone._ She had to survive with nothing more than relics. She clung to each of them – repeated his name until her mouth went dry, set her palm firmly on light blue steel until she could practically feel it rumble beneath her touch, buried her nose in the number 24 until the scent of pine needles eased some of the unrelenting ache.

Her chest tightens. She thinks of how Stiles said that his love for her grows every single day, and she quivers with emotion because she feels it too. Her heart swells whenever she looks at him, so much love inside that it hurts at times, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

Because now, _Stiles is with her._ He is with her, and that is all she wants in the world – just to be with him. When he stirs a little more, she bites her lip to stifle a sob.

 _Hold your breath,_ she reminds herself. _When you love someone, you hold your breath._

So she does. Lydia holds her breath until she can't bear another second of it, then she releases it slowly, letting her lungs empty, leaving more space for her heart to expand, more room _for Stiles_.

She repeats the process, making as much room for him as she possibly can. The sensation is familiar. She knows she has done this before. Lydia closes her eyes and tries to remember, and much to her delight…she does.

 _She remembers the day before the lunar eclipse…_

* * *

She was sitting at her vanity, wearing a pale blue chiffon dress. Her hair was pulled back into a braid that her mother had helped her style. As she put on her makeup, her eyes kept drifting to the bruise on her neck – the one Jennifer Blake branded into her skin with a garotte. Lydia had told her mother that she didn't want to cover it, and she meant it. After all, it was proof that _she survived._ But that didn't mean she wasn't also terrified to return to the place where she had nearly died…again.

Lydia remembers that Stiles was supposed to be picking her up. When he had called her that morning, and she informed him that she was going to school, he insisted on it.

At the time, she was relieved that she wouldn't have to walk into that building, to pass the classroom where she had pleaded for her life, without him next to her. Now, she was beginning to have her doubts. Stiles was going to be there any minute, and she was already struggling to maintain her composure. She wondered how she was going to face him after what happened.

It was _her fault._

Swallowing with difficulty, she watched the reddish-brown line that cut across her throat contract and expand. An image of her attacker flashed before her, echo of her own scream ringing sharply in her ears. Lydia shut her eyes, but the darkness only revealed a more horrifying picture.

Her eyes reopened. She blinked rapidly and shook her head, as though it would erase the memory from her mind. But it didn't.

She tried to regain focus on what she was doing. Lydia remembers that as she lifted her mascara to her lashes, her hand began to shake. She quickly returned the brush to its tube and screwed the cap shut. Her reflection stared back at her; lips firmly set in a line, cheeks flushed, eyes dull green.

Just when her stomach started to tense with nerves, a familiar warmth traveled through her body. It calmed her anxiety and muted the noise. She closed her eyes another time, and instead of seeing Jennifer, the Darach, emerging from the darkness, she saw light. _Stiles._

Suddenly she felt brave enough to think about the previous night…

* * *

The moon shone a spotlight on Stiles, who had been standing by the shattered classroom window with Scott. Lydia was bound to a chair on the opposite side of the room, desperately trying to withhold her sobs. As soon as a weeping gasp escaped her lips, Stiles broke from the shock he was in and rushed over to her, sound of her name whooshing past his lips.

There was a rattling noise. It took her a minute to process that it was the vibration of her trembling fingers tapping against the arm of the chair. He covered her hands with his until they stilled, then walked to the desk that was a couple of feet away to find a pair of scissors.

While Scott called for an ambulance, Stiles came to kneel in front of her, carefully slipping the blade between the tape and her wrists to free her. She sat motionless, face wet with tears. He wiped them away, cupping her jaw with his palms and gliding his thumbs along her hot cheeks. Then, without a word, he stood and gingerly dabbed at the cut on her forehead with the edge of his blue flannel shirt before offering both of his hands. She accepted them, the physical connection giving her enough strength to get up from the desk chair that had nearly become her execution chair. Her legs were unsteady, and she tipped forward a bit, but Stiles was there to catch her.

When he wrapped her in his arms, she leaned into his chest; solid and warm. Her nose fit right into the hollow at the base of his throat…like it belonged there. She breathed him in, concentrating on the twitch of his pulse under her nose and grasping at the front of his tee shirt with her fists.

Over and over, he whispered, _It's okay, you're safe now_.

Without any hesitation, she released his shirt and slid her arms around him so that they were cloaked in that secure space between his tee and his flannel. _Safe_. Just like he said.

Ribs mimicking her uneven rhythm of rising and falling sharply, then going completely still, Stiles held onto her until the medics arrived and asked him to step aside. After the third time, he reluctantly complied, but his hand immediately found hers again.

When she was wheeled to the ambulance, he walked with her for as long as he could, their fingers tethered at the tips until neither of them could reach anymore. Before the ambulance doors closed, he promised he would see her in the morning.

* * *

The next time Lydia surveyed her reflection, something was different. Her cheeks were still pink, but her mouth was reshaped into a small smile and her eyes had brightened to a hue of emerald.

Shortly after, there was a knock on her bedroom door, followed by the sound of Stiles's voice.

"Lydia? Can I come in?"

She remembers the way her chest squeezed – tight, but not uncomfortable, and she realized she was holding her breath. It was nothing like the painful sensation of not being able to inhale because she was being strangled. _This_ was completely different. It was linked to the spark that ignited at the center of her rib cage whenever she was with Stiles. It reminded her of something that Allison once said – that when she would see Scott standing at the other end of the hallway, she couldn't breathe until she was with him. Lydia remembers thinking that she was experiencing the same thing. Curious, she let it hold her for a moment, then exhaled.

"Yeah, it's open," she answered above the sound of her quickening heart.

The door slowly opened, and Stiles stepped into her room. "Hey," he said with a tentative smile.

She remembers exactly what he was wearing – charcoal-grey baseball jacket, a two-toned striped grey tee, red pants, and sneakers.

He was beautiful, and her breath hitched as she replied, "Hey."

"How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she fibbed, averting her eyes.

With that, he crossed the room and stood beside her, setting his hand between her shoulder blades.

"How are you _really_ feeling?" he questioned, pain affecting his features…exactly what she was hoping to avoid.

It only ever got more difficult for her to see him like that – hurting because he was worried about her. Lydia remembers wishing she could make it stop. As she had just proved, downplaying her fear was futile because Stiles always recognized when she was pretending.

But something else made her consider the possibility that she already had a solution. A quiet voice inside, one which was growing louder each day, told her that the best way to help was to just be honest with him. It told her that all Stiles really wanted was for her to let him in…the same way she had been doing, more and more frequently, over the course of the past several months.

"Slightly terrified," she admitted, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He gave her an upside-down smile and knelt down, hand sliding towards her lower back. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"What about you?"

"Also slightly terrified," he confided, gaze directed at her neck.

After a lengthy pause, she pointed out, "Stiles, you're staring."

"Uh…sorry…" he corrected, clearing his throat. "I just…"

While his words were left hanging in the small space between them, his opposite hand lifted, fingers resting lightly on her shoulder, thumb barely grazing the bruised surface of her skin. To Lydia, his hesitant tenor had conveyed care and his touch held patience. She remembers what it felt like – this silent communication they were slowly learning to navigate. She understood that Stiles needed to see her, and she knew that she was safe with him. So, she tilted her head up to expose her neck, and she waited…

He inhaled sharply before his golden-brown eyes met hers. "Does it hurt?"

"No, not anymore," she told him. Because it didn't. Not when he was so close. Not when he was looking at her in the same way he always did – like she mattered to him.

The next words out of his mouth were an apology. "I'm sorry I couldn't go with you to the hospital."

Her eyes welled up, and she held her breath again. _He_ was apologizing _to her._ _His dad_ was taken because he was saving her life, _and Stiles was apologizing to her_.

"It's alright. I know you couldn't." Though she sounded remarkably calm, her hands wouldn't stop fussing with the hem of her dress.

He looked at her thoughtfully, his tone feather-light when he asked, "Hey, what is it?"

She wondered how he could be so soft with her when it was her fault that he was so scared. She wet her lips and released the fabric that was pinched between her fingers. She remembers feeling like if she didn't hold onto Stiles, she would crumble, so she placed her left hand on his upper arm and gave it a squeeze.

"I'm the one who should be apologizing."

His eyebrows cinched with confusion. "Why?"

"It's my fault…"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm so sorry. Your dad… If I hadn't… He—"

His expression instantly altered with comprehension, both of his hands remained anchored to her, the one at her back pressing a little more firmly. "Lydia, it's not your fault."

"But—"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head. "It's _her_ fault. _She_ did this, and I won't let you blame yourself…especially not after what you went through." Then, he rose up on his knees and drew her into a hug.

Her forehead landed in the crook of his neck, nose finding that perfect hollow at the base of his throat. She stayed like that, let him hold her again. And she hugged him back…because she wanted to.

Lydia remembers how the contact made her stronger. More than anything, she wanted to help Stiles find his dad, and all the fear she had been battling was pushed aside. She could go to school, face the fire – the one that was threatening to burn their lives to the ground…and the one that was flaring inside of her. If Stiles was with her, maybe they could find a way through it _together._

"I'll help you find him. I'll do anything I can… I promise."

She felt the breath catch in his throat, hollow sinking, then stilling.

After a while, he put a bit of space between them and tenderly touched her cheek. "I know you will. You always help me."

When their eyes met, she couldn't help noticing that the room was uncommonly bright for such an early hour. She remembers the intensity of his regard and how profoundly it fascinated her. She remembers seeing love in his eyes, glinting topaz from within. It was easy to recognize because it was the same kind of light that she saw in her own eyes, moments earlier…when she was thinking of him.

Her gaze followed the sweep of his nose and landed on his lips. Lydia remembers wanting to kiss Stiles. He was _so close,_ and he made her feel _so much._ She wanted to know what it would be like to kiss someone who inspired her heart to beat faster, someone who gave her butterflies and who made the sun come out, even on her darkest days. She wondered if it would take his pain away…and maybe hers as well.

She held her breath but before she could move, Stiles's phone buzzed in his pocket and they both jumped.

 _"Shit!_ Sorry...sorry," he reacted, minty exhale rushing past her skin and uplifting fly away strands of her hair. Then, his palm and digits slid away from her face, and he covered her hand with his.

It took another minute for her to grasp that he was waiting for her to relinquish the death-grip she had on his sleeve so he could retrieve his phone. She slowly unwound her fingers, and her lips reflexively pursed to hide a self-conscious smile.

"I—I should check that. It could be Allison or Isaac," he explained, voice wavering ever so slightly.

"Right. Go ahead… It's okay," she nodded, attempting to conceal her disappointment.

Lydia watched Stiles stand up and take his phone from his pocket. Even though she hadn't kissed him, she was changed – on the inside. Changed in a way that might have appeared to be sudden, but which actually was not. She had been on the edge of it for months. All the while, it was tingling under her skin and tugging at her heart, making her feel more alive and more aware every time she was with Stiles. It was real, and honest, and good…like him. It was something she could almost touch…

While he read the text he had received, Stiles reached for her hand. She laced their fingers together, and just like that – she could breathe.

Allison's words raced through her mind again, and Lydia smiled because she knew what it felt like: _When you love someone, you hold your breath…and then they help you breathe again._

* * *

 **Present Day**

An intensified brightness in the room claims Lydia's attention. She looks at Stiles, beautiful angles of his face so close to hers, pulse in his neck drawing her attention by tapping on her skin, weight of his body anchoring her to the present – _to him._

Finally ready to wake him, she leans in and gently presses her lips to his forehead. "Stiles…wake up… Baby, wake up," she whispers, following her coos with more kisses.

His eyes stay shut but he breathes a bit deeper, and she massages his back, coaxing away the last shadow of sleep that holds him.

"Mmm… Lydia…" he replies as he winds his arm around her, bicep rising in a taut knot under her breast.

She feels his lips pucker against her chest once…then twice…before his head lifts and he begins tacking kisses from her sternum…to her jaw…to the space directly below the corner of her mouth.

"Stiles," she shivers in a hushed tone. Her insides quake with anticipation, but it gets mangled with an unwelcome tremor of panic that seeks entrance into her mind. It tells her this is all just a dream, that things might look different to him in morning light, and it makes her wonder if he will regret forgiving her so easily.

As he hovers a fraction above her lips, he holds his breath.

 _When you love someone, you hold your breath._

The panic subsides, and Lydia remembers that Stiles loves her…as much as she loves him. She believes in them – _together_ , so she sighs his name once more, then holds her breath too, waiting for his response.

It comes in the form of a kiss.

She keeps her eyes open for a few seconds longer than he does, watches his lashes flutter and his lids close. While his lips continue to glide over hers, maintaining a flawless balance of pressure and sweetness, his arm slides underneath her, pulling her securely against him as he turns on his side. They exhale at the same time. She feels his body tremble, and his fingers fan out across her spine, then begin exploring... One moves upward, cradling her head, fingers weaving into her hair. The other travels lower, following every inch of her curves, eventually grabbing behind her knee and hooking her leg over his thigh. His abdominal muscles cinch tighter, and she clutches at his shoulders, using the leverage to shift her hips until they connect with his. A shallow inhale stokes the heat and fuels the fire. Lydia's eyes start to water from _want_ – from the building pressure in her chest, love commanding more space which she willingly surrenders, _for Stiles._

When they break for more oxygen, he tilts back, eyes dazed with affection, lips tinted to scarlet, voice low and raspy when he says, "Good morning," with a luminous smile.

"G'morni—" she falters, heavy emotion weighing down one side of her mouth and hindering her lungs.

 _When you love someone, you hold your breath._

"Hey… Where's the other half of that smile?" he inquires with a playful little pout.

She wells up and buries her nose in the hollow of his throat – that space which seems like it was carved out specifically for her.

The concern in his tone is apparent when he asks, "Lydia, what is it? Are you worried about tonight?"

Shaking her head, she moves her hand to his face and meets his gaze. Her lungs expand. "I just… I just love you so much that sometimes I can't even breathe. You know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. It happens to me too… A lot," he adds, decorating her cheek with more kisses. "But you always help me breathe again."

His words go straight to her heart – where Lydia is certain that she will always have more room _for Stiles._ They take their rightful place amongst all the memories, the touches, the kisses, and the love they have shared, and her heart doesn't just grow, it blossoms too. It unfolds like the petals of a _Sterling_ rose, offering the promise that their life together will always be as sweet.

"You do the same for me, and in case I haven't told you lately… I'm so grateful to have you back. I missed you so much…all those months."

"I missed you too – so much." He nudges the tip of her nose with his. "I was lost without you…my angel."

He said _angel_ , and her mouth remembers how to smile.

A few innocent kisses evolve into a few more, and they end up making love again, slower but with equal passion.

* * *

The next time Lydia wakes, Stiles is quietly calling her name, his fingertips trailing up and down her spine in an infinity pattern. She stretches beneath his touch and opens her eyes, vision temporarily blurred by the radiance of his irises.

He is already fully dressed, his smile perfectly reflecting how she feels on the inside.

"What time is it?" she yawns.

"Uh…" he idles, setting his hand flat against the small of her back while he glances at her alarm clock. "It's almost noon."

"Oh… Already?"

"Yeah," he confirms with a frown.

"Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"I couldn't. You looked so peaceful…it hurt to think of spoiling it."

She laughs softly.

"What?"

"I did the same thing earlier…" she confesses, turning over and reaching for his cheek. "It took me more than half an hour to work up the nerve to wake you."

He catches her hand as it slides away, then kisses the inside of her wrist and weaves their fingers together. "I should probably go home for a bit…shower, change, get clothes for tonight."

"Mmm…" she purses her lips. "You want anything to eat before you leave?"

"Nah, I'll pick something up while I'm out, so I can swing by the stat—"

He stops mid-sentence, sucking in his bottom lip, and she knows why.

"Stiles, it's okay. I know you want to see your dad…and you should."

"But I feel bad 'cause—

"Please don't… The two of you have an amazing relationship. It only ever makes me happy to see that. You both deserve it."

"So do you."

She smiles.

"He adores you, Lydia."

The feeling is mutual. _Of course it is._ Noah Stilinski is the man who raised _Stiles_ – the love of her life, all on his own for the past ten years, all while working a more-than-full-time job. The man who is there for his son for all the big moments…and the little ones too, and who somehow manages to preserve the delicate balance between confronting the world of the supernatural and keeping the people of Beacon Hills safe. The man who has been there for her on more occasions than she can list – he saved her life when Jennifer Blake tried to take it, he gave her the chance to get through to Meredith Walker when she was reluctant to speak, and he carried her into the hospital when Sebastien Valet used his claws on her.

"I adore him too. He's been more of a dad to me in these last weeks…in the last years really...than mine has ever been, and I'm so lucky to have both of you in my life."

"So are we." He kisses her hand, looking at her like it grieves him to articulate his next words. "Are you gonna be alright here for a while?"

"Yeah, I am."

"I'll be back soon. Okay?"

"Don't rush though. We're going to be leaving in three days. You should spend as much time as you can with your dad."

"Okay, but if you need me, just call."

"I always need you."

It takes another half an hour of kissing and hugging…and several long pauses by the door before Stiles makes it out of the bedroom.

After she hears the front door close, Lydia showers, bundles herself in a towel, and blow-dries her hair. Then she slips into a strapless, black lace bra, matching panties, and her floral cotton robe. Taking the lavender ribbon from her dresser, she braids it into a thick section of hair which she wraps around her crown like a headband. She goes downstairs to make a sandwich for lunch and sits outside on the patio with Prada to eat.

Even though Stiles isn't there, Lydia feels like he is with her, his love surrounding her body with warmth. The reassurance it provides helps her make it through the bouts of worry and the nagging voice that tries to convince her that the night is going to be a disaster, that her father is going to try to sabotage her relationship with Stiles. Every time the voice gets too loud, she gets a text from Stiles that makes her smile. She replies to every one of them with an _I love you._

* * *

About two hours later, he returns in a Mets tee shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers. He has a white button-down and some black slacks draped over his arm, his only pair of oxfords dangling in his hand. She hugs him before he can even put any of it down, her nose finding the nook at the base of his throat. His arms quickly come up around her; free hand first pressing behind her shoulder blade, then lifting until his fingers are lightly brushing the lavender satin in her hair as he whispers her name.

 _He noticed. Of course he did._ She breathes him in, and she holds her breath.

 _When you love someone, you hold your breath._

They stay locked in an embrace until Lydia relieves Stiles of the items he still holds and tows him towards the living room. Then, they curl up on the couch with Prada to watch some episodes of _Friends_. Together, they laugh until they tear up as Monica struggles to get drops into Rachel's eye in _The One with Joey's Big Break_. Whenever Lydia's body tenses with anxiety, Stiles holds her closer, or strokes the side of her index finger with this thumb, or drops a kiss on her temple, and he tells her that it's going to be okay…just like he promised.

She is safe in his arms. It reminds her that after everything they have been through in the last few years, there is no way that a couple of hours with her father is going to hurt them.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, they return to her bedroom. While Stiles changes into the clothes he brought, Lydia puts on a plum-colored one-shouldered dress and high-heeled sandals.

She is applying her makeup when he questions, "Should I have brought a tie?" There is a quiver in his speech that she immediately recognizes as unease.

"Definitely not," she answers, observing his reflection in the mirror.

He is nervously combing his hair, and her lungs constrict again. It takes every ounce of her strength not to crumble at the sight of him. She can hardly comprehend it sometimes – how it's possible for him to show her how much he loves her in every single thing he does. She wonders how she ever deluded herself into thinking she could get through this without him.

Lydia walks over to Stiles and tugs on his wrist to stop him, then runs her fingers through his hair until it looks the way it always does.

"Lyds, I almost had it," he gapes at her before his open mouth shapes into a frown. "Your father's gonna think I don't own a comb."

"I don't care what he thinks," she assures him, unfastening the top button of his shirt and smoothing her hands over his chest. "I care how _you_ feel, and I want you to be comfortable. I want you to look like you… I can't do this if you aren't going to be you. I need _my Stiles_ – the boy I fell in love with…the one with the perfectly messy hair, who would never button his top button, and who has the biggest, purest heart I will ever know _._ "

All the tension in his shoulders dissolves under her touch. "Lydiaaa…" he sighs, "I'm supposed to be helping _you_ stay calm, not the other way around."

"You _are_ helping me – just by being here…and we're supposed to help each other. We're a team… Remember?"

"Yeah, we are," he agrees, palms conforming to the curves of her waist.

Then, he kisses her…and they both hold their breath.

* * *

They arrive at the restaurant at 6:30 that evening. The sun is beginning to make its descent, and the sky is gradually fading from azure to aquamarine. A soft mist hangs below a layer of wispy cirrus clouds, giving the atmosphere a surreal appearance.

Lydia parks her car on the side street and looks at Stiles. He is especially beautiful, bathed in shimmering solstice light to match the amber in his eyes. His gaze is already set on her, and she can feel his love blazing through her veins and flourishing in a fiery ring that encircles her heart. She holds her breath and releases it slowly…clearing even more space for him inside.

"You're stronger than you give yourself credit for, Lyds. You can do this," he reminds her, tenderly caressing her face.

She leans into his touch, puts her hand on his thigh, and tells him, "So can you. You can do anything."

He covers her hand with his…like he always does. "When I'm with you, I feel like I can. And hey, if it gets to be too much for either of us…" he adds with a wink, mischievous grin animating his mouth, "maybe we'll just take off for San Francisco a few days early. What do you think?"

"I think you had better not tempt me," she laughs while she releases her seat belt.

Stiles steps onto the sidewalk, comes around to open the car door for her, and offers his hand. She happily accepts it, locking their fingers tightly together. As they walk to the restaurant with the sun warming their backs, Lydia finds that she is once again captivated by the image of their shadows; side by side, so little space between them. She kisses him before they go inside, and for the entire evening, Stiles never lets go of her hand…just like he promised.


	14. We Could Be Stars

Piercing lights in the dark make the galaxy ours  
Kingdom right where we are  
Shining bright as a morning, you'll never be lonely  
Just promise you'll love me, I'm never too far  
And we'll never part  
And we could be stars  
\- Stars by Alessia Cara

* * *

Late on a sunlit Friday morning, Lydia is in her bedroom packing for her trip with Stiles. She is standing on a small step ladder reaching for her overnight bag, which is located on the top shelf of her closet.

When Prada emerges from a nap with a whimper, Lydia glances over her shoulder, just in time to see the Toy Spaniel stretch her legs and leap from the bed. The black and white bundle of fur rushes to the open door where she excitedly puffs out tiny _woofs_ , her paws doing a perky little tap dance on the wood floor as she waits for permission.

Lydia smiles, excitement flaring in her belly and her heart instantly modifying its rhythm. "He's here. Isn't he?" she says, brushing aside some stray pieces of hair that have come loose from her topknot. "Well…" she motions towards the door, "go get him…"

Prada dashes out of the room while Lydia shakes her head, laughing to herself over the sweetness of the entire situation before returning to her task. As she pulls her overnight bag closer, she notices a decorative box that is positioned alongside it. She tilts her head and examines the box. It's familiar – cream-colored background with metallic gold stars printed on it, but she can't remember what is inside. Leaving the bag where it is, she picks up the box instead.

Shortly after, she hears the front door open and shut, then a lengthy succession of high-pitched barking noises, followed by one of her favorite sounds in the world – Stiles's voice.

"Lydia?"

"I'm upstairs," she calls out.

She thinks he must be trying to break his own record because in mere seconds, he is standing in her doorway carrying Prada under his arm, lopsided grin tugging at the right side of his mouth. He toes off his sneakers as soon as he enters, the same way he does when he walks into his own bedroom.

Lydia's smile expands. She loves that he does that. It's one of those seemingly insignificant actions that means so much more. It tells her that he is comfortable here, that this place has become home to him, that he knows he belongs. She watches with admiration as he sets Prada on the bed and instructs her to sit. The pup obediently complies, tail wagging happily when Stiles rewards her by scratching behind her ear and calling her a _good girl._

With the box still clutched to her chest, Lydia stays perched on the ladder, longing dissipating with each step Stiles takes in her direction. His hands are attracted to her body like magnets. They quickly find a place to connect; low on her hips, weight of them welcome and grounding, heat of his palms transferring through the thin fabric of her forest-green romper.

"Hey, beautiful," he hums.

Two words. Just _two words,_ articulated in _that way_ , and her insides puddle into liquid heat. Before she can respond, his right hand departs from her hip and curls around the nape of her neck so he can pull her into a kiss. After that, all she can feel is _him,_ and all she can hear is her own heart chiming _Stiles...Stiles...Stiles...Love...Love...Love._

He kisses her like he hasn't seen her in ages, communicating every bit of want, and need, and affection that she dreams of receiving with the deliberately tender motion of his mouth and the firm grip of his hands.

Parting her lips, Lydia greets his tongue with a little moan. "Mmm… You taste like maple syrup," she tells him.

Stiles smirks against her cheek, then drizzles a line of kisses down to her neck and collarbone.

"This is a nice surprise. I wasn't expecting you 'til later." Her fingers roam under his navy-blue tee in search of skin; hot with the faintest indication of sweat evaporating under her touch.

"Scott had to take off early. Deaton needed his help."

Panic abruptly rises in a cold prickle that travels up her spine, and she clasps onto his ribs as her body tenses. She doesn't even have to voice her concern for Stiles to understand the leap her mind took. He reacts, erasing the chill with a smooth caress down the length of her back.

"Hey, it's alright… It was nothing like that." His nose nudges her ear as he speaks. "He just needed Scott to assist on an emergency surgery. Someone brought in a cat that was hit by a car."

"Oh…" She drops her head to his shoulder, momentarily relieved…until she considers the damage that a car could do to a cat's body. "Oh," she repeats, lifting her head again. "The poor thing! Is it going to be okay?"

"Yeah, Deaton seems to think so."

"Good," she notes, holding onto him a bit tighter.

He leans back so he can see her face, but her gaze is focused on the floor.

"Lyds, look at me."

She meets his eyes which are soft, relaxed, happy.

"Everything is fine. I promise."

"I'm sorry," she cringes, "I just don't want anything hanging over us while we're away."

"Listen, you don't have to apologize for how you feel – ever. I worry too. You know me… I'm an expert at it," he jokes. "But we deserve a break. We're leaving tomorrow…and we are going to have an _amazing_ weekend…just the two of us. Okay?"

She releases a protracted exhale. "You're right. We are," she agrees with a smile as he tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Did you and Scott have a good time?"

"Yeah, we went for breakfast and then to the batting cages…so he could remind me of how much I suck at hitting a curve ball," he adds with a grimace.

"Hmph…" she chortles. "Well…Scott has an unfair advantage with his wolfy eyesight and reflexes."

"Right! That's what I told him… I knew you'd get it!"

Lydia laughs and kisses his left eyebrow which has risen into a high arch.

"Oh…and I stopped by the bakery on the way over here…got you some of those chocolate-hazelnut pastries you like."

"You did?"

"Yup, they're in the kitchen."

She rubs the base of his neck and leans to whisper in his ear, "We are eating those in bed later."

"Definitely," Stiles replies eagerly. He tries to get closer, but the box Lydia holds keeps him at a slight distance. "Whatcha got there?" he inquires, tapping on the lid.

"Um…I'm not sure."

"No?"

"I don't remember…but I think it's something to do with us."

"Oh… Don't you want to open it then?"

"Yeah, I do…" She sucks in her top lip, taste of maple syrup lingering there.

He waits patiently for her to finish her thought, pads of his fingers kneading into her hip, wordlessly reassuring her that he is there for her, that she can tell him anything and he will always understand.

"It's just…frustrating…having all of these…blank spaces. I want to remember _everything,_ but I have no idea how much else is missing and…and it scares me to think that there are parts of us I still can't reach. You know?"

"Yeah, I know. Try not to pressure yourself though. You'll get there… You've already remembered so much in the past few weeks."

When he brackets her chin with his index and thumb, all she can do is marvel at his ability to convey so much care within the touch of two fingers.

"What do you say we open it together?" he asks.

"I'd like that."

Taking her hand, he guides her off the step ladder. They move to the bed, sitting side by side with their backs propped on the pillows and headboard. Stiles extends his legs out in front of him, and Lydia draws her knees up towards her chest, pressing into his side when he puts his arm around her.

In the meantime, Prada prances over to join them, curling herself into a ball where Lydia's shin rests on Stiles's thigh. They both acknowledge her, their digits connecting over her silky mane as she lets out a satisfied wisp of a sigh.

Stiles kisses Lydia's temple; contact of his lips familiar and encouraging. She turns to face him, and he leans his forehead against hers.

"Whenever you're ready… Okay?"

She nods, and they take a breath together. Then, Lydia gives him one more kiss before she lifts the lid.

The box contains several small items, all of which are wrapped in tissue paper. She selects one and carefully removes the paper. Stiles cups his hand over her knee just as a beam of amber light flashes off the surface of the object she has uncovered…and she remembers.

 _She remembers a night in December – just six months ago, when Stiles woke her from a sleep…_

* * *

The first thing she clearly remembers is the sound of her name, said by _his voice._

"Lydia…"

Her mind had been contentedly drifting in that mystical place, somewhere between sleep and awake, where dreams and reality mingle into one blissfully perfect haze. The place where she had been dreaming of him. _Stiles._

"Lydia… Lydia…wake up." His tone was uniquely soft and charming, and the spell that kept her wandering in slumber was broken.

An impression of crisp winter air swept the last trace of fog from her mind, and she could feel that he was sitting next to her on the bed.

The next thing she remembers is his touch; long fingers and warm palm looping around her wrist, thumb gliding over her knuckles. Her entire body came alive – skin tingling, heart picking up pace, lungs tightening, stomach tethering into butterfly mode – but she kept her eyes closed. She had to.

"Lyds, come on…" he coaxed.

It was tempting to give in, but she had been there before; excitement over his presence darkened by the cloud of impending doom that continually hovered over them. Her eyes remained shut.

"I know you're awake. Open your eyes for me."

When she didn't comply, he huffed out a sigh and stirred alongside her, but she instinctively countered his move, grabbing his sleeve so he wouldn't turn on the lamp.

"No," she refused.

"Why not?"

"Because."

Because all it would take would be _one look_. One look at _that face_ – soulful brown eyes, adorable upturned nose, lips which were probably quirked into a beautiful crooked smile, flawlessly angled jawline that framed it – and she knew she would cave…same as she had the last five times he dragged her out of bed in the middle of the night. But that was not happening. _Not tonight_.

Or so she thought...

"Pleeeease…" he crooned.

If honey had a sound, _that_ would have been it; single syllable leisurely dripping off his tongue, so sweet she could almost taste it. The saccharine tang of its flavor oozed its way through her, sending delicious shivers all over her body. Her resolve was already beginning to weaken.

"What time is it?" she yawned.

"Uh…it's a quarter past midnight."

But then, she realized what day it was. "Sti-les," she groaned, throwing the covers over her head. "Do you know what that means?"

"You mean…do I understand what 12:15 _is_ in relation to time as a general construct? Or—

"I'm referring to the fact that it is _past_ midnight…which means it's officially December 24th…otherwise known as _Christmas Eve_ …as in _the holiday."_

Though her own sleepy protest was muffled by layers of sheets and blankets, she could distinctly hear the snicker he attempted to stifle as he replied, "Yeah, yeah…of course. I know."

"Then you should _also know_ that means I am _not_ getting out of this bed so you can drive me all over Beacon Hills—"

"Lydia—" he tried to intervene, tugging slightly at the covers as she stubbornly cowered beneath them.

"…or _any other place_ to look for supernatural activity _of any kind."_

He laughed and squeezed her hand. "That's not why I'm here."

"It…isn't?" she asked, cautiously unveiling her face and flinching when a charge of static electricity crinkled through the sheets, causing strands of her hair to soar into the air.

"No, I wanna show you something," he explained.

She remembers the sparks that flared between them while he smoothed her hair back into place. Lying completely still, she reveled in the gentle quality of his touch. He skimmed her cheek with his fingertips, prompting her lungs to expand to full capacity…and there it was – that scent. _Pine needles._ Stiles always smelled like pine needles, but on that night, the fragrance was far more intense than usual. Lydia couldn't withhold a smile. She remembers wondering why she even bothered trying to resist him in the first place. Before she knew it, her eyes were open, and she was impatiently waiting for his face to come into focus. Unfortunately, all she could distinguish was his silhouette.

"Stiles, it's too dark. I can't see you," she remarked with a pout.

Without letting go of her hand, he stood up to raise the shades that lined the windows, then took his place beside her again. "How's that?"

Finally, she saw him – silky hair a bit more messy than usual, handsome face illuminated by icy blue moonlight, nose and cheeks rosy from the cold, and a glint of something extra in his eyes.

"Much better," she answered softly.

He silently regarded her, expression a little shy, subtle flutter of his lashes as he gnawed on his lip. He was nervous.

"Are you okay?" she asked, combing through his hair with her fingers, hoping the contact would relax him.

It appeared to have worked because he released his bottom lip and smiled. "Yeah, sure," he replied, bobbing his head.

"So…" she led, adjusting herself to a seated position, "what did you want to show me?"

When she pushed the blankets aside so she could get out of bed, Stiles set his hands on her shoulders.

"Hang on… You can stay right where you are." He dug into the pocket of his hoodie to retrieve a rectangular box which he placed into her palm. It was somewhat clumsily wrapped in glossy, ruby-red paper and tied with a lopsided white bow that was as endearing as the grin on his face.

"I thought we were exchanging gifts tonight at the McCall's," she pointed out.

"Yeah…but this won't have the same effect with everyone else there."

Her eyes widened, and she pursed her lips. Suddenly, _she_ was nervous.

"Go ahead… Open it."

She stared at him for a brief moment, wave of nerves transforming back into butterflies when he gave her a wink. She remembers carefully easing the ribbon past the edges of the box, determined not to disturb the bow, and anxiously tearing at the paper until the box was uncovered. When she lifted the lid to see what was inside, Lydia was more than a bit surprised.

"A remote control?" she questioned, curiosity animating one eyebrow into a high peak as she picked up the device.

"Yeah. Here… Look to your right and press this," Stiles instructed, manipulating her finger over one of the buttons.

"Okay…" she said through a tingle of anticipation.

Eventually prying her eyes away from him, Lydia turned her head to the right. She remembers pushing down on the button and hearing the mechanical click that followed.

Then, she remembers lights in the dark.

Her room miraculously flooded with a warm glow, and her heart was struck by an avalanche of love. She could feel its dynamic surge crashing into her ribs and jolting her body forward in the process.

 _A Christmas tree._ _He got me a Christmas tree._

It was perched on her dresser; no more than two feet tall, covered in twinkling lights.

Her jaw dropped, and a gasp escaped her mouth before she breathed his name, "Stiles…" She looked to him…then to the tree…then back to him. "Stiles…" she repeated, precipitous barrage of tears recklessly stinging her eyes.

Awestruck, she grabbed hold of his hoodie and slowly got up from the bed, towing him with her as she crossed the room to get a better view of the tree. She stood in front of it, taking in every detail. The small, blue spruce was decorated with shining amber glass stars. At the very top was a petite, strawberry-blonde angel with a flowing white gown and elegant wings that resembled spun gold. Lydia remembers reaching out to touch the tree, but her hand was trembling, and she recoiled, covering her mouth instead.

She had told him about it once – what having a _real_ Christmas tree meant to her as a child. It happened on a rainy Thursday in November, two days after he saved her from Eichen House. Lydia had been in bed with a headache. Stiles left school early to be with her. She was safe and surrounded by comfort, wrapped in his arms; his left hand rubbing her back, fingers of his opposite hand gingerly massaging her temple.

They spent most of the afternoon speaking in hushed tones. She opened up to him about the fleeting time in her life when her parents didn't argue as easily as they breathed. When her mother laughed freely, and her father used to care. A time when the first weekend in December meant a drive to the Christmas tree farm in Concord; a family of three searching for the prettiest fresh-cut pine they could find. They would take their time selecting a tree, then bring it home to decorate it together – adorning its branches with as many strands of lights as they could fit, as well as a collection of ornaments that had sentimental value, rather than a theme.

The first Christmas after her father left, Lydia's mother discarded every one of those ornaments and purchased an artificial tree, and they have had one ever since. Every few years, the color scheme and trimmings would change, but one detail remained the same – the scent of pine never filled the Martin household in December…until Stiles brought it back to her.

Because he listened to her. Because he remembered _._ Because he wanted to make her happy…and he did.

Unblinking, she beheld the tree, her eyes blurry in a way that amplified the lights, their sparkle radiating outwards in every direction.

Stiles inched closer, his side connecting with hers and his right arm sliding around her waist, like he knew she needed his support just then.

"Lydia?"

She instantly recognized the apprehensive twang when he asked, "Is it okay?"

Still clinging to his hoodie, she let her other hand drop from her mouth to her sternum to reveal an unhindered smile. "It's more than okay… It's beautiful."

"Oh good," he exhaled, briefly closing his eyes, then ducking his head. "I mean…I'm glad you like it," he amended with a timid smile.

"I love it." _I love you._

A few droplets spilled over Lydia's lashes when she leaned her head on his shoulder. Stiles drew her closer, then rested his cheek on the crown of her head. They stood there for a while, gazing at the tree; miniature bulbs illuminating each of the ornaments which, in turn, cast star-shaped refractions throughout the room. It was peacefully quiet, nothing but the swoosh of the wind outside and the synchronized rhythm of their breathing.

When she was steadier, Lydia extended her hand to touch one of the ornaments; tip of her finger ever so gently colliding with a delicate star. In the faintest of movements, the bauble shimmied on the end of its string, sending dispersed light whirling all around the space.

"They're so pretty. I've never seen anything like them," she remarked.

Stiles inhaled deeply. "They're antiques…I think," he began, tenor laced with solemn emotion. "They…uh… They were my mom's favorites. Her father sent them from Poland as a Christmas gift, the year my parents got married. They were always the first ornaments to go on the tree, but my dad and I haven't used them since…since she died. We don't even bother with a tree anymore. I've been thinking… It doesn't make sense for them to be hidden away, and I want you to have them."

Her heart immediately responded, sprinting to a rapid pace. She lifted her head from the crook of his shoulder. "But they've been in your family all that time. I—"

"They still will be," he stated plainly, lifting his left hand to give her shoulder a squeeze. "Lydia, you're part of my family."

"Really?"

"Yeah, of course you are." His eyes were glistening, brows cinched in at the center, lips sculpted into a bashful smile.

Something pleasantly heavy settled in her chest. Stiles had caroled that statement like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lydia remembers thinking that maybe it should have been, because she already felt that way about him. He was watching her attentively, his eyes reflecting the same heartfelt sincerity he had always shown her – something that transcended the brilliance of all the stars in the night sky, something she could only describe as _pure love._

She caressed the side of his face, her voice thick with affection when she affirmed, "Stiles, you're my family too."

His eyes fell shut, and his chest heaved against hers.

Lydia remembers slowly rising to the tips of her toes and delicately kissing his cheek. When she felt his smile growing, she pressed harder, lingering for several beats while the heat from his skin warmed her lips. Then, she nuzzled along the side of his face until his hair tickled her nose. Stiles enveloped her with both arms, pulling her so tightly to him that her feet rose off the floor…and he held her like that for a comfortably prolonged length of time.

Even when he set her down, Lydia still felt like she was floating.

She kept her hands on his shoulders. "Do I get to give you your gift now too?"

"Sure, if you want."

"Come sit down," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the opposite side of the room.

Lydia headed to the closet as Stiles kicked off his sneakers and rearranged the pillows so he could sit on the left side of the bed, _his side._ After retrieving the present she had wrapped in green plaid paper, she knelt next to him.

She remembers the spasm of nervous excitement that cartwheeled its way through her stomach when she told him, "I hope you like it."

He pushed up his sleeves and accepted the package with a bright grin. Then he tore into the paper, countenance altering from enthusiasm, to intrigue, to astonishment as he finally uncovered the gift – a canvas she had painted from a photograph of Stiles and his mother. He was six years old, sitting on her lap, both of them beaming with laughter.

He gaped at her; brows raised, cheeks tinting pink, lips parted. "Lydia… Did you… Did you paint this?"

"Yeah," she answered in a whisper.

"How did you ever—"

"Your dad helped me with that. He said it's your favorite."

"It is." He held the canvas out in front of him, head shaking from side to side. Then, his mouth opened and closed a few times before he spoke again. "Lyds, this is amazing. It's incredible. It looks _exactly_ like the photo. Actually…" he broke to wet his lips, "it's better because the color in the photo is starting to fade, and it's got my fingerprints all over it."

Emotion refined the words he pitched into a heavenly symphony of notes that tugged on her heartstrings, resonated in her bones, and imprinted on her soul. She remembers the glistening teardrops that skated over his chiseled cheekbones and trickled past the edge of his jaw, slippery wetness of them coating her fingers as she wiped them away. She remembers the incomparable feeling that came from knowing that something she painted could affect another human being so profoundly. Not just another human being – someone she loved with her whole heart. _Stiles._

She grabbed his forearm, and his golden-hued eyes flicked back to hers. She wanted to tell him how she felt, but her throat seized up; jumble of sentiment lodged in her larynx making it impossible to speak.

He put the painting down on the bed and rotated towards her. Then he cradled her face in both of his hands and leaned in until their foreheads were touching.

"I don't have words for what this means to me…except…I couldn't love anything more."

Lydia heard the _I love you_ in those words, and when Stiles stretched up to press his lips to her forehead…again and again, she felt it in every kiss.

She was dizzy with euphoria, every cell in her body awake, alive, and pulsing with love.

She remembers the overwhelming need to hold him. In the past weeks, they had spent many hours together, progressively merging into one idyllic embrace after another. It was becoming instinct not to hesitate, not to even consider doing so. She just wound her arms around his neck, melting into him when he willingly pulled her closer. Her chin was on his shoulder, his face buried in her hair, their rib cages pressed together. Lydia remembers that her heart was fluttering so wildly she thought it may have evolved wings. She half-expected it to fly right out of her chest and soar into his. She could feel his breath sweeping across her neck, weight of his hands spreading over her back, fingers grazing the bare skin at the base of her spine, then reverently adjusting her knit pajama top where it had rolled up.

When Stiles started twirling the ends of her hair loosely in his fingertips, Lydia lost all sense of time, all care for it too. All she could focus on was the unparalleled way their bodies were connected; so relaxed and at ease that it soothed every ache, faded every scar, and opened her heart. Everything about it was so natural, so right, so perfect that she wondered if her arms would ever be anything other than empty without him in them.

After a while, he said, "I should let you get some rest."

The thought of separating from him siphoned all the air from her lungs, causing her to issue his name in a sigh, "Stiles…"

"Hmm…"

"I…"

Lydia remembers being frustrated with herself for not being able to tell him how she felt. If she had, then maybe he would already know that she wanted him to stay for the rest of the night…better yet, for _forever._ It should have been so easy to vocalize the _I love you_ that occupied her mind, her heart, and her soul. She was surrounded by love and filled with it too. It should have been so easy…but it wasn't. Those _three words_ were powerful and sacred. She had guarded them so securely and for so long, that whenever she tried to express them, her throat clenched up – afraid to let them out, afraid the world would taint them before they ever reached his ears.

But she had to say something. She couldn't let him leave, so she used three different words and hoped he understood.

"Please don't go," she quivered.

He arched back, keeping his arms around her and as little space between them as possible, like it hurt him to consider ending the physical contact as well.

"I don't want you to go," she added more firmly.

His response came quickly. "Then I'll stay."

She smiled and he mirrored it, leaning in to kiss her head once more. Reluctantly, he let go of her and picked up the canvas, taking another long look at it before placing it on the nightstand. While he stood up to shrug out of his hoodie, Lydia straightened the sheets and blankets.

A faint scratching noise at the door drew their attention and made the corners of their mouths curl higher. Stiles padded to the door to open it, and Prada scampered into the room, happily springing on her hind legs until he scooped her up. A flurry of soft laughter swirled through the air as he placed her on the bed where she bolted towards Lydia and sat at her side.

Lydia waited for Stiles to climb in, then covered him as he nestled on the pillow next to her. When he gestured to invite her closer, she wasted no time tucking herself into his open arms, scent of pine needles and laundry detergent wafting off his snowy white tee shirt as her lungs automatically expanded. Lydia remembers thinking that she had everything she needed right within her reach – a safe place to rest her head, her cherished pup, and the boy she loved with every fiber of her being. _Stiles._

She was happy.

And there were stars everywhere – in the winter sky outside her window, all over the ceiling and the walls, even on his cheeks and in his eyes.

Drenched in serene comfort, their faces mere inches apart, she gazed at him. His expression was soft, relaxed, content. The incandescent glow from the Christmas tree was tossing flares behind his head like a halo. Stiles was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen – all of the light from the inside somehow visible on the outside. Within it, she saw her best friend, the person who knew her better than anyone else, the person whom she trusted with her secrets and her life.

Two years earlier, Lydia never thought she could feel so close to anyone. But everything that she and Stiles built since then had brought her to a place where she couldn't imagine a life without him. She wondered if he felt the same, and when he spoke to her, she knew that he did.

"Lyds, what are you thinking about?"

"Us."

There was something in the way he sucked in his bottom lip and released it that communicated joyful surprise.

"What about us?"

She hesitated, letting the word _us,_ so divinely ushered from his lips, suspend in peaceful silence so she could admire it a bit longer. Stiles seemed to understand what she was doing. His eyes remained focused on her while he found her hand beneath the covers and lifted it to his cheek.

"Do you ever wish things were different?" she asked.

"Different how?"

"Like…if all of the supernatural stuff didn't exist, and we could be normal teenagers."

"Yeah, sure I do…but despite how hard it's been…whenever I think about everything we've been through, I end up in the same place."

"Where's that?"

He lowered her hand to his chest. "The place where I'm just grateful that we've had each other all this time…because I can't imagine my life without you."

She could feel his heart drumming on her knuckles; strong but also infinitely reflective of vulnerability and perfectly matched to her own. That cadenced beat was precious to her; a reminder of how fragile their lives were and how rare their connection.

"I can't either," she told him, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

They both snuggled closer…and closer…until they were nose to nose. Lydia doesn't remember which of them moved first, it might have even been at the same time, but she does remember the moment that their lips landed on each other's cheeks. She remembers the way her heart raced when Stiles pressed into her and how their noses lovingly brushed as they slowly parted. She also remembers the wondrous smile that graced his lips when their eyes met.

She remembers saying, "Merry Christmas, Stiles." _I love you._

And she remembers hearing the unspoken _I love you_ when he whispered, "Merry Christmas, Lydia."

Enamored, she watched him fall asleep, then followed him to dreamland, visions of Christmases yet to come dancing in her head. All of them with Stiles. All of them warm, and safe, and celebrated with _love._

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia blinks as a streak of amber light glints across her view. Stiles is holding her close; left arm still protectively draped over her shoulder, right hand still on her knee, pad of his thumb now rolling circles along her skin.

She looks at the star ornament that triggered her memory, then turns to him with a smile on her face. "I remember, Stiles. I remember last Christmas Eve."

He smiles as she hooks the bauble on her index finger. She gives him a kiss, then twists around to set the box that contains the others on the nightstand. The motion wakes Prada, and she relocates to the foot of the bed to sprawl out on her side. Lydia and Stiles exchange looks of feigned insult before breaking into quiet laughter.

He taps on her knee. "So, what do you remember?"

"Everything." She grabs onto his shoulders and straddles his lap. "I remember you…waking me up just after midnight, and what an awful time I gave you because I didn't want to get out of bed." As his palms and fingers shape themselves around her waist, she delicately kisses his smile and apologizes, "I'm sorry for that, by the way."

"It's okay. I was sorta making a habit of dragging you out of bed. Wasn't I?"

"I didn't mind _that_ much. Anyway, I wanted to be with you. I just…didn't want to go looking for…trouble."

"Yeah, I know," he chuckles. "What else do you remember?"

She showers his face with kisses while she continues, "The tree you brought me, how nice it smelled…the lights and the angel topper…how you held me…the painting of you and your mom—" Glancing up at the ceiling, she groans, "God, that's been driving me crazy! I see it in your room all the time…I even remembered working on it, but I couldn't remember giving it to you."

When she tilts her head back down, Stiles is looking at her with dewy eyes.

She brings her hand in between them. "I remember the way these made stars all over the room…and that they were your mom's favorites."

He reaches out to touch the ornament that is dangling on its string at the end of her finger. It spins on its axis, sending golden-orange rays of light bouncing around the room. He observes them for a minute, digits languidly stroking the sides of her ribs. But then his body tenses. Lydia feels Stiles shudder underneath her and the gasp that rushes past his trembling lips as he seeks refuge in the crook of her neck.

Her arms swiftly encircle him, and she hugs him tightly while he cries hot tears that soak into the front of her romper. "Oh… Stiles, I'm sorry. I thought it would make you happy. I didn't mean—"

"No, it's alright," he corrects her, picking up his head and sniffling. He cups her face when he speaks to her. "I _am_ happy, and I want you to talk to me about your memories – all of them. I just… How can I even explain what it's like for me?" He takes a breath as he slides his hands behind her shoulder blades. "My mom, she couldn't… She had moments when she was clearer but…usually, the harder she tried to focus on memories, the more muddled the present became. She'd get this look – kind of a blank stare, and I could almost feel her slipping away. But _this_ – getting to watch you remember, Lydia – seeing the light in your eyes every time you get back another part of our story, something that brought us closer together and that makes us fit so perfectly… It's one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen…and…"

She waits, but he remains silent.

"It's okay. You can tell me."

"It feels like… I dunno… It feels like you're healing me."

"Stiles…" She draws him nearer, gliding her hands through his hair and kissing away the rest of his tears. "Do you know what it means to me to hear you say that? You've been the one to help me so many times." She pauses, delighted to find that all traces of his sorrow are fading and the corners of his mouth are gradually lifting upwards. "When you brought me that tree, you healed parts of me I never thought would heal…and then you made it even more special by giving me these stars that are so meaningful to you. That night, you didn't just say I was part of your family, you treated me like it too. You've always done that…and I'm so lucky to have you love me the way you do."

Gorgeous brown eyes instantly brighten, and a full smile takes shape. "I'm really lucky too." He leans his forehead against hers, honey in his voice when he asks, "Remember that night…how we both said that we couldn't imagine our lives without each other?"

"Yes."

"I didn't think it was possible, but I feel that way _even more_ …now that we're together."

"So do I. I don't know who I would be without you."

"Lydia—"

"It's true," she asserts, massaging the base of his neck. "You've changed my life…and only for the better."

"Well, that works both ways, you know." He nudges her nose with his, then tags her temple with a kiss, hint of warmth caressing her cheekbones when he exhales.

She lets it seep into her skin, bolstering her with the confidence to pose a question that has been on her mind in recent weeks. "Stiles, do you think if things were different, and we had normal lives…would we still be like this…together?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I know it," he answers with certainty. "No matter what, we would always find a way to be together. It wouldn't matter if we lived in the same town…or on opposite sides of the world. It wouldn't matter if we were normal teenagers or not. We could be anything… I bet we could be stars…light years apart…and we would still reach each other because we belong together."

Tears of joy nip at her eyes. They fall slowly…like snowflakes, when she agrees with a nod, "You're right. We do."

They kiss, and Lydia relishes in the glorious power of his love. She senses it in all things: the way he speaks to her, the way he touches her, the way he looks at her, the way he believes in them. It's everything she dreamed of and _so much more._

When their lips reluctantly part, he ticks his head towards the closet. "How about you put packing aside for a little longer? I wanna hold you for a while."

"That sounds good to me," she sighs, letting her hair down from her top knot.

She crawls out of his lap, waiting while he lies on his side and opens his arms for her. Then, she dissolves into his comforting embrace before calling for Prada, who immediately bounds over their tangled legs and situates herself between their rib cages.

The family of three settle in together. Stiles begins playing with the ends of Lydia's hair, looking at her with eyes so captivating that she thinks they must be made from the same substance as the stars.

She smiles at him and admits, "There's something else I remember about last Christmas Eve."

"What's that?"

"That I wanted to tell you I loved you. I tried but…"

She bites her lip in dismay, but he stops her with the pressure of his hand against her back.

"It's okay, Lydia. You did tell me – three times. I heard you."

"You did?"

"Yeah, and I tried to tell you too. Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard you, Stiles. I can always hear you… I even heard you when you were gone. That's how I know you're right – we'll always reach each other, no matter what."

She positions the ornament between them, letting the sunlight that streams through the windows strike the glass, so it can cast stars around the room to match the ones in his eyes.

"Just think…" she says, "this Christmas, we'll get to spend the entire holiday together."

"I know, Lyds. It's gonna be the best. We can start our own traditions…get our first tree."

"I think you mean our second tree. I'm counting last year's as our first."

"I like that," he acknowledges, with a smile. "I promise, it will be a real tree this time too…even if it's the smallest, most crooked, Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the lot."

She laughs. "And we'll decorate it together…with these stars, so we can think of your mom…how she's still with us…how she helped bring us together, and how she'll always be part of our story."

She can hear how much he loves her when he replies, "I can picture it. I can picture it like that forever."

"Me too."

Lydia and Stiles spend the next hour in each other's arms, everything they need right within their grasp, watching amber beams fill the room as well as their hearts…with light, and love, and hope for the future.


	15. I Get to Love You

One look at you  
My whole life falls in line  
I prayed for you  
Before I called you mine  
Oh I can't believe it's true sometimes  
Oh I can't believe it's true  
I get to love you  
It's the best thing that I'll ever do  
\- I Get to Love You by Ruelle

* * *

Lydia already has her hand on the front doorknob when Stiles pulls into the driveway on Saturday morning. She hears the engine cut off, and she steps onto the porch just as he hops out of the Jeep with a smile bright enough to light up the pre-dawn sky. He jogs up to her, wordlessly greeting her with open arms and a kiss that takes her breath away. Her hands glide along his shoulders, and her fingers delicately caress his neck. Inevitably, they end up in his dark crop of hair, which is still damp from the shower. His body is adaptive and warm, expelling the cold that the air-conditioned house has left on her skin.

Their kiss melds into a hug; limbs clinging, rib cages perfectly aligned, their cheeks pressed together and puffed from the upward turns of their mouths. She is weightless in his arms…yet heavily anchored in love; tips of her sandals barely skimming the stonework below their feet, bodies fused on what feels like a cellular level.

Stiles squeezes Lydia a little tighter before easing back to look at her. She can only imagine the love-struck grin on her face, but she couldn't suppress her excitement even if she wanted to. She is _beyond happy,_ the prospect of four days _with Stiles_ making her heart bang like a drum and her stomach all swirly.

Energized anticipation simmers beneath the surface of his skin too. She can feel it – his chest heaving and his hands slightly trembling as he fiddles with the strap of her black tank top. "You and me…huh?" he says.

"Yeah. You and me," she answers, emotion perforating her words.

His expression grows serious, and he swallows with a bit of difficulty. "Lydia…" he trails off.

He is looking at her in _that way_ that he does – the way that means he loves her so much, words never seem like enough.

"I know," she replies to his unspoken declaration. "Me too – _so much."_

He sighs and nods his head; relieved. Then, he ardently presses his lips to hers, lingering afterwards while a wisp of breath mingles between them. Beaming, he steps back and picks up her overnight bag as she locks the door behind them.

The atmosphere is dense with humidity, spiraling breeze swishing the fabric of her floral skirt and ruffling his hair. As Lydia and Stiles walk to the Jeep together, his hand settles between her shoulder blades, thumb gently stroking the nape of her neck, sending tingles up and down her spine. He opens the passenger's side door, sets her bag in the back, and waits for her to climb in.

Once she is seated, he cups her cheek and asks, "You ready?"

 _"So_ ready," she responds with a smile.

He leans in to sneak one more kiss, then gives her a wink and closes the door. Swiftly striding to the driver's side, he buckles himself behind the steering wheel and starts up the Jeep.

It's just before sunrise when they depart. Lydia and Stiles ride in comfortable silence for the first portion of the drive. One of her hands is mindlessly toying with the end of her side braid, and the other is resting on his thigh. He navigates the nearly empty, winding roads that dissect Beacon Hills, mouth set in a pensive line, while she observes their hometown through glistening beads of condensation that shimmy across the windshield.

The neighborhood is tinted by a shadowy blue veil; light still dim enough to conceal its many blemishes. At a superficial glance, their hometown almost appears unthreatening, tranquil, safe. Except…it isn't, and Lydia is fully aware of that awful truth. It's one she can't ignore, but she is content to leave it behind her, to focus on nothing other than Stiles, the life and the memories they are creating together. The further they get from the center of town, the less burdened she becomes.

Daylight is just beginning to break over the horizon when the Jeep cruises past the highway sign that reads: _You are now leaving Beacon Hills_. Lydia and Stiles exchange a look and a pair of wide smiles. She can feel him relax beneath her hand and see the tension leave his shoulders. His chest expands with deeper breaths, and so does hers.

After that, they immediately plunge into chatter about all of the things they want to do in San Francisco. It's natural and easy – like always.

The heavens gradually lighten as they progress north. Stiles takes the coastal road, decreasing speed as they pass Beryl Cove so they can take in the view. The sky is pale blue, golden rays glowing under a smattering of silver-grey clouds. The ocean is alive with movement; foam-crested waves pulling back and pushing forward, then crashing against the rocky shore and skidding over sand.

The colors and tempo are different from the last time they visited, but the feeling remains the same – Lydia is alive and connected. She is certain that it's because both she and Stiles have good memories tied to the cove. This place is more than special – it feels like it's _theirs._ When she is away, she would long for the clarity and the exhilaration it evokes, but there is no need because _Stiles is with her_. All she has to do to recapture those feelings is to take one look at him. The boy who answered all of her questions when he said _You don't have to._ The boy who restarted her heart when he kissed her in the dark, without hesitation, because _he knew_ she loved him.

Stiles covers Lydia's hand with his and gives it a squeeze. "How about breakfast at _Morning Tide_ ," he suggests.

"Sounds great," she replies.

Lifting their joined hands to her lips and kissing each of his knuckles, she watches his smile grow…and another piece of their future falls into place. She thinks of how wonderful it will be to spend every day of her life trying to figure out all the ways she can make him smile like that.

Once they are fed and caffeinated, they continue on their journey. Just the two of them, nothing but endless blue skies and open road ahead. As they veer inland a bit, the perspective alters; trees ascending in height and density, seascape sinking below the cliffs.

Stiles outdid himself plotting out the route for their drive, choosing the most scenic yet least busy roads. Everything goes as planned, and they reach their destination in record time. On their way into San Francisco, they get an impressive view of the city from the hills that surround and flow through it.

They arrive at the bed and breakfast shortly after 10 a.m. to check in and drop off their bags. The two-story Victorian is picturesque; pale aqua façade with ivory trim, black shutters, and a porch that envelops the perimeter. The grounds are landscaped with evergreen trees, white hydrangea, and climbing pink roses. Inside, the décor is light and bright with a subdued color palette and a coastal vibe. The floors are weathered oak, some of the windows are stained glass, and the furniture is beautifully detailed but not too ornate.

Lydia signs in at the front desk, and Stiles accepts the key from the hostess. They climb an L-shaped staircase, then follow the sundrenched passageway to the end of the hallway. When they get to the door, he unlocks it, letting it swing open so the two of them can take in the sight of their room. It is even more charming than in the photos; just the right amount of space for two, impeccably tidy, and filled with natural light. The wallpaper is a muted, grey and cream diamond pattern, all of it trimmed with thick crown molding. Along one wall, there is an antique wood dresser with a large brass mirror hanging above it. On the opposite, there is a four-post bed with layers of fluffy pillows and a pale blue-green quilt. It's bracketed by two small nightstands, each of them topped with a vintage crystal lamp. The turret nook at the far side of the room is lined with arched windows and sheer white curtains. Its alcove houses a small collection of books and a cozy-looking loveseat.

As Lydia is about to enter, Stiles blocks the doorway with his arm. From the hall, he deposits his bag inside the room, proceeds to take hers from her shoulder, and places it next to his. She can see the corner of his mouth curling up when he peeks at her over his shoulder.

Realizing what he intends to do, she starts to say, "Babe… You're not—"

"Yeah, I am," he interrupts, turning towards her and quieting her with a kiss.

Every muscle in her body clenches with anticipation as he scoops her into his arms and carries her over the threshold. She nudges the door closed with her foot, winds her arms around his neck, and kisses him back, butterflies tickling her stomach so furiously that she is practically giggling into his mouth.

And it feels _so good_ that she can hardly believe this is her life now. It's like being in the middle of a daydream – the kind she never wants to snap out of.

When he breaks for a breath, she moves her hand to his cheek. "Stiles, this is really happening… Right?"

He gives her a look, like she just pierced his heart, then walks over to the bed where he carefully sits her on the mattress. Kneeling in front of her, he takes her hands. "It is. I promise," he assures her with a confidence in his voice that she has come to rely on, lips sugar-sweet when he seals that promise with another kiss.

She slides towards the middle of the bed to lie down, and he follows, positioning his body over hers, half of his weight supported by his elbows and the rest leaning into her, like he knows she needs to feel him so close.

She smiles up at him, and he watches her, eyes adoring and focused as he runs his fingertips down the side of her face, thumb dipping into her dimple. "This is real, Lydia. Everything between us is real…and it always has been."

A surge of heat blazes through her body and flourishes in her cheeks. The lightheadedness it incites makes her grateful to be lying down. She closes her eyes, lets the sound of his steady breathing guide her inhales and exhales, and the thump of his heart against her rib cage encourage the rhythm of her own.

One month ago, she was without him. She woke every day with a painful knot in her stomach and an unrelenting heaviness in her chest. All the while, she was desperately trying to reassemble the fragments of their life – the one they had been building together, the one that was so senselessly ripped away from them. One month ago, remnants were the only thing keeping her going, reminding her lungs to expand and her heart to beat _for Stiles_. She knew he was more than the name she scrawled on a piece of paper, more than some mystery she needed to solve. She couldn't see him or touch him, but he was real. One month ago, she had no choice but to keep her love inside, protect it, wait until the echoes of her affection resonated loudly enough to reach him.

Stiles heard her. He came home to her.

And all of the longing and aching was replaced with serenity and joy…because now, she gets to love him – openly, honestly, and with nothing holding her back.

Turning her face into his hand, she presses her lips to the inside of his palm. When she opens her eyes to look up at him, Lydia is met with warm brown eyes and a patient smile.

"I love you so much," she tells him, drawing him nearer and nearer…until their noses are touching. "Nothing in my life is _ever_ going to compare to being with you. Nothing."

She can feel him quiver, levity of his words unable to mask the raw emotion in his tone when he asks, "You sure about that? I mean, you might get tired of me after four days of—"

"Not possible," she insists.

"How do you know?" he whispers.

"Because…the more I'm with you, the more I _want_ to be with you."

"Well then…" he begins, tongue grazing her bottom lip when he pauses to wet his, "it's a good thing we plan on being together forever. Huh?"

"Yeah, it's perfect."

He inundates her with _I love yous_ as he kisses her forehead, her cheekbones, her chin, and finally, her mouth. Lydia holds onto Stiles as tightly as she can, thinking only of the way he makes her feel – happy, complete, hopeful. _Loved._

After several blissful minutes of kissing, he sighs and lies next to her on his back. She tilts her head until it lands on his shoulder, and his left hand finds her right, fingers promptly intertwining. They lie side by side, for a few more minutes, eyes pointing upwards as they observe the pretty patterns of light that shift across the ceiling; both of them calm, at peace, and secure in the powerful presence of each other's love.

* * *

Lydia and Stiles get to the auto shop by 11 a.m., as scheduled. When they step through the front door a bell jingles overhead, announcing their arrival. The noise gives Lydia the impression of déjà vu. She considers it for a moment, but lets it pass because she notices that Stiles is nervously fiddling with his keys.

She loops her fingers around his wrist, and he stops.

"It's going to be okay," she says while stroking his forearm with her thumb.

He nods, nibbling on his lip. "You're right. I'm being silly."

"No, you're not." She takes him aside and slips her arms around his torso so she can massage the base of his spine. "I know how important the Jeep is to you. Of course you're reluctant to trust it with people you've never met. But once you talk to the engineers…hear how much they care about what they do…you'll feel better."

"I feel better right now, actually." He pulls her into a hug and marks her shoulder with a kiss. "Thanks, Lyds. Not just for what you said…for everything. Being able to do this…it means so much to me."

"Me too, my love." She smiles into the soft skin of his neck and grips him a little tighter…because she can, and because it always feels right.

They stay in each other's arms a bit longer, then head over to the front desk where the clerk enters all of the necessary information regarding the Jeep into the computer system. Shortly after, he introduces them to the technicians, Nicholas and Gemma, who will be rebuilding the engine.

As they explain the particulars of the process and answer Stiles's questions, Lydia sits in the waiting area and leafs through a magazine. The front door opens again, and the same sense of déjà vu washes over her when she hears the bell ring. This time, it triggers a memory.

 _She remembers a Saturday afternoon during junior year…when Stiles kept her from drifting away…_

* * *

The melodic chiming of a bell sounded overhead as she pushed open the beveled glass door of the Hawthorne Bookstore and stepped onto the sidewalk. Lydia remembers the bag of books she carried in the crook of her arm and the way her pink suede purse, which was slung across her body, slapped against her hip as she treaded down the block.

The sky was clouded and dreary, the January air chilly and damp, gusty wind tossing her ponytail behind her and nipping at her neck. She remembers that as she stopped to zip up her jacket, her eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the street. Before they had even found a focal point, she knew they were searching for him – _Stiles._

She did that now – looked for him…in the hallways at school, in the cafeteria, driving around town, walking down the street. No matter where she was, her eyes were always searching for Stiles.

On good days, she would find him right away. The day she remembered was one of them.

He was coming out of Armor Tire, one hand rubbing the nape of his neck and the other shoved into the pocket of his grey striped hoodie.

Lydia remembers the way her stomach flip-flopped and the dry spot that stuck to the back of her throat. Swallowing with difficulty and pressing her books firmly to her chest, she remained frozen in place. She remembers being irritated with herself for standing there like a lovesick high school girl, hoping that Stiles would see her, when all she had to do was call out to him. She had never been shy in the presence of boys…but he wasn't _just a boy_ , he was Stiles.

Stiles, who looked at her with such intensity that it made her blush, and who influenced her heart to pulse at a dangerously erratic pace. Stiles, who touched her with such tenderness that she could literally feel her insides melt, and who held his breath when she kissed him, less than two weeks earlier.

 _She kissed him,_ barely an hour after she realized that what she felt for him was Love. _She kissed him,_ and she hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. She felt so many things from that kiss – not only her feelings, but his too.

When Stiles suddenly turned his head towards her, Lydia wondered if he had felt the weight of her stare. The notion caused her to tense further, but then their eyes met, and he smiled…and all she wanted was for him to be closer.

Without a second thought, she returned the gesture...perhaps a bit too widely, so she pursed her lips while he quickly crossed the street to join her.

"Hi," he greeted her.

"Hi," she answered, fully surrendering to the grin that insisted on reshaping her mouth.

Lydia remembers how she and Stiles gazed at each other, like they hadn't just seen each other the day before. As his smile broadened, her eyes focused on his lips. She couldn't help it. She remembered what it felt like to kiss those lips, how soft they were, how well they fit with hers, like they were always meant to connect. She wanted to feel that again.

Discreetly pinching her thigh through the fabric of her jeans, she snapped herself out of the hypnotized state she was approaching so she could ask, "Everything okay?"

"Huh?"

He blinked several times, and a glimmer of satisfaction worked its way through her. Maybe his thoughts had been wandering too.

"With the Jeep…" she elaborated, ticking her head towards the auto shop.

"Eh…it started leaking fuel," he grimaced. "I was hoping it was just a line, but it's the tank, and I've got to have it replaced."

"How long does that take?"

"Apparently…'til Tuesday since they have to order the part."

"Oh," she responded, shifting from one foot to the other. "Well…I could pick you up for school until then…if you want."

"Thanks, that would be great. Breakfast is on me then… Deal?"

"Deal," she agreed.

"So…where are you headed?"

"Home," she replied, adjusting the books in her arm.

"Did you walk here?"

"Uh-huh."

"Can I walk you back?"

"It's out of your way…" she pointed out, internally cringing because she had wanted to say, _Sure,_ _I'd like that_ or _If you want to._ Even a simple _Yes_ would have sufficed.

But, much to Lydia's delight, her response didn't discourage Stiles.

"You know I don't mind, so…I'll take that as a yes," he told her, relieving her of the books she carried.

While he tucked them under his right arm, she marveled at his ability to hear the words her heart wanted to say.

Flashing her a crooked grin, he set his left hand between her shoulder blades. The contact immediately put her at ease. "Come on…" he led, guiding her forward, "you can tell me about these…and I'll pretend that I'd understand them without your help."

Rolling her eyes, Lydia laughed quietly. "As if _you_ need me to explain anything to you. Don't fish for compliments, Stilinski. It's not a flattering look."

"I wasn't," he chuckled, letting his hand slide away from her back to rifle through the bag. "I bet these are all way over my head."

She immediately missed the physical link between them but made a conscious effort not to let it show. "No, they aren't. There's one about the aurora borealis that you would love… It has lots of pictures in it," she teased, nudging his side with her elbow.

He stopped walking, feigned offense on his face.

She smiled at him unreservedly, and he shook his head but conceded, "I set myself up for that. Didn't I?"

"Yeah…you did."

To make sure that she really hadn't insulted him, she stepped closer, keeping her eyes on his. They were soft and happy, and even though the weather was overcast, his eyes shone with the same sunlit glow that she had seen the day she kissed him. They were beautiful. _Stiles_ was beautiful – so beautiful that Lydia got lost in his stare. Forgetting the boundaries which she normally maintained, she reached out to touch his face; four fingers lightly resting on his jaw, thumb gingerly sweeping across his cheekbone.

Her voice was hushed when she said, "I really do think you'd like that book though. It has a whole section on the legends associated with the aurora borealis and…and I remember you told me that you were fascinated with the northern lights ever since you saw _Frequency."_

His eyebrows uplifted by a fraction of an inch. "You remember that?"

"Yeah, of course," she replied, dragging her hand away from his face before it got too comfortable there. "That movie has got like three of your favorite things all rolled into one story…astronomy, a mystery to solve, and the Mets."

As she attentively watched his expression, her stomach fluttered; intense little tremor spurred by the timid smile that crossed his lips. She remembers wanting to make him smile like that every day, and she was so besotted with the concept, that her next statement came out in a whisper.

"Anyway…if you want to…you could borrow the book…or keep it even."

His cheeks, which were already tinged pink from the cold, deepened in hue. "What if…we read it together?"

If any other boy had made the same suggestion, Lydia would have assumed that they had an ulterior motive…and she would have been right. But Stiles never treated her like other boys had. She knew, without a doubt, that when he said he wanted to read with her, it was because he wanted to spend time with her, doing something they both enjoyed, and it made her love him more. She remembers wondering how it was possible that anyone so good could exist, but she chose not to overanalyze it. All that mattered was that Stiles was real, that what was happening between them was real, and that being with him made her happier than she had ever been.

Her chest constricted, and she ached to show him how much he meant to her, so she slid her hand into his and spoke the words she had wanted to say earlier. "Sure, I'd like that."

They gazed at each other, the same as they had when they met near the bookstore. Her heart accelerated, each of her beats tugging on a chord that tightened the knot of excitement in her stomach…until it almost hurt. But then Stiles laced their digits together, his thumb stroking the side of her index finger, as it often did, and just like that…the knot loosened, the butterflies returned, and she relaxed enough to speak to him again.

"Well…" she began with a renewed strength in her voice, "I thought you were walking me home."

"You got it, Lydia," he confirmed.

They moved forward together, their steps instantly in sync. Lydia felt her lungs expand with a refreshing blast of cool air. She remembers how the bare branches of the trees swayed in the wind and how the last of the dried leaves occasionally crunched beneath her boots. The sky was tempering from grey to white, a single patch of cerulean blue visible in the distance.

There was an energy in the atmosphere that she couldn't quite describe. Suddenly, something as mundane as walking home seemed like so much more, and she knew it was because she was _with Stiles._ It was so easy to be with him. They were talking and joking with each other, and she was captivated by the simple act of holding his hand. It was powerfully connecting…and a little frightening…but also mind-blowingly beautiful to be able to feel so much.

Lydia knew that she had been wrong in the past. She had used the word _love_ without ever truly comprehending it. Being close to Stiles was changing everything. He opened her eyes to a new perspective and opened her heart to a world of possibility. She wanted to know them better. She wanted to know _him_ better. Lydia remembers thinking that if _this_ was what falling in love really felt like, then she wanted to experience every second of it.

She tried to prolong their time together by slowing her pace and pausing every so often when they fell deeper into discussion. Stiles was responsive to her cues, abbreviating his stride and turning towards her as often as possible. Lydia knew that no matter how much either of them delayed, eventually they would arrive at her house, but in her heart, she still wished their walk would never end.

* * *

They were two blocks from her house when she heard a sound so shrill that she stopped in her tracks. It had caught her off-guard and threatened her balance.

"Stiles…" she instinctively called, her hand tightening around his.

He halted alongside her, the panic she experienced echoing in his tone. "Lydia, what's wrong?"

She was about to answer, but the noise screeched louder. Regretfully releasing his hand, she covered her ears as everything blurred to a blinding white light. Her knees buckled underneath her, but she never hit the ground…

* * *

After that, all she remembers is the familiar warmth that shielded her right side from the cold. Lydia let the sensation consume her, knowing full well that it was coming from Stiles – the boy who tethered her to everything good in the world and who kept her from aimlessly drifting away. Her heart beat faster at the thought of him, encouraging his warmth to spread further, blanketing her whole body and coaxing her back to her surroundings. She was aware of his arms encircling her; one around her shoulders, the other draped across both of her knees.

He spoke her name, and her vision cleared; white haze gradually saturating with color, particles reassembling to form a picture she could recognize. She remembers that she was sitting on slate steps which belonged to her neighbor. Stiles was quietly pleading with her to talk to him through a series of uneven breaths.

"Stiles…" she gasped.

"I'm here. I'm right here," he soothed, holding her to his chest.

And she knew she was safe – he wasn't letting her go.

She raised her stare from the grey of his sweatshirt to the amber-flecks of his eyes. They appeared careworn and relieved at the same time.

"I didn't fall down," she remarked.

"No, I caught you. Lydia, are you okay?"

She nodded.

He ran a hand over his face, grabbing at his jaw while he emitted a prolonged exhale behind it. Lydia remembers the way his heart changed pace against her shoulder. She remembers the way hers reset to follow it.

"What about you?" she asked, tugging on his sleeve until he uncovered his mouth.

Following a brief silence, he responded, "I—I'm fine," then twitched out a weak smile. "I was just…worried." He tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, letting his hand rest at the side of her neck. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah. How long was I…?"

"Uh…I dunno…" he stopped to clear his throat, "less than a minute."

Less than a minute, and although he was trying to hide it, Lydia could plainly see the anguish that was shadowing his expression. It reminded her of how easily she could hurt him. She hated that. She remembers thinking she was naïve to imagine that, for one afternoon, she could be a normal teenager; spend time with someone who meant so much to her…and _not_ have it be spoiled by any kind of supernatural drama. She remembers feeling foolish for daring to believe that she could get close to Stiles; that she could get to love him, without anything holding her back.

"Oh," was the only syllable she could pronounce before her lips started to quiver. She pressed them together, annoyed at how swiftly the mood had changed.

Minutes ago, she was happy and hopeful, but now she was teetering on the edge of tears. Her body rebelled, trembling uncontrollably as she fought a losing battle against disappointment and irritation.

Stiles pulled her closer, gently rubbing her shoulders until she stilled. "It's okay, Lydia. It's okay. Just tell me what happened."

She attempted to swallow the painful lump of grief that was lodged in her throat, but it wouldn't budge, so she strained to speak over it instead. "It got so loud."

"You heard something?"

"Yeah…but I don't know what it was. I couldn't focus, and then I blanked out," she shrugged. It was bad enough that her stupid banshee episode had disrupted her time with Stiles. To make matters worse, she hadn't even obtained any useful information from it. Her fingers found the tassel on her purse and began twirling it. She needed something to do with her hands, so they wouldn't shake. "How am I supposed to help anyone when I don't even know what I'm hearing?"

His eyes scanned the area, and he discreetly lowered his voice. "You've only known that you're a banshee for a couple of weeks. It's going to take time before you—before _we_ understand it better. Maybe we can find a way to help you focus."

"And in the meantime, what if something awful happens? Something I could have prevented."

Stiles cupped his hand over hers. "I know you're upset, and you have every right to be, but you're putting too much pressure on yourself. It's not like this is an exact science."

"Yeah, well…I like science. I _understand_ science," she answered with a frustrated edge. "But _this…_ I don't want this. I don't want to be what I am. I don't want to hear things that no one else can hear. I don't want to blank out and lose time. All I wanted was to walk home _with you_."

The words formed hastily on her tongue and rushed past her lips…and it never even occurred to her to refuse them. It felt like a small victory because, for once, she simply said what was in her heart without any hesitation.

His lips parted, and his eyes searched her face for a few seconds. "I wanted that too," he replied wistfully.

Lydia flushed with heat; a mix of nervous excitement and guilt seeping into her cheeks. "I'm just…sorry I ruined it."

She looked away, but Stiles drew her attention back to him by gliding his hand to her wrist.

"No, you didn't. You didn't ruin anything. I had a good time with you." He leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Well…except for the part where you bansheed out on me."

Her heart momentarily faltered from the spark between them, but she quickly collected her wits so she could quip, "I told you…we are not making _bansheed out_ a thing." Then she tossed him a glare, struggling in vain to stifle a laugh because he was just _too adorable_ when he was trying to cheer her up.

"Right…of course not. Sorry," he retracted with a placating smirk that faded as rapidly as it had emerged and reshaped into something heavier, contemplative, affectionate. "Seriously though, years from now, when I think about today, all that's going to matter is that we were together. I'll remember how easy things are between us. I'll remember that we held hands and laughed for most of the way. I'll remember that…when you needed me…I could be here for you."

Lydia knew that Stiles was telling her the truth, but she couldn't stop herself from reacting with astonishment. "You will?"

"Yeah, sure…and I hope you'll remember it the same."

"I will. I promise," she assured him. "I'm glad you were with me…so I didn't…so I didn't get lost."

She remembers the glossy sheen that coated his eyes, making them more brilliant. With his soft-spoken words and tender regard, Stiles was reaching a part of her that no one else had ever touched, a part of her that no one else could ever touch…because it belonged to him. Much to her surprise, Lydia found that she was okay with that. In truth, she was more than okay with it – she liked it, was learning to rely on it, wanted more of it, because if there was one person in the world whom she could trust with the most fragile part of herself, _it was Stiles._

 _But what if something happens to him?_

The realization hit her – _hard._ A punch, connecting squarely with the center of her chest _._ More than ever, Lydia could feel how acutely afraid she was of losing him.

"I'm glad you were with me," she choked out in repetition, "but what about…?"

Her fear compiled, looming at an onerous level; weight on her shoulders pushing down so forcefully that she had to duck her head.

But then Stiles stepped in and lightened the burden. He let go of her wrist, hooking his index under her chin so she would look at him again. "What about what?"

"What about the fact…that what I am could be dangerous? What if helping me gets _you_ hurt?"

"I'll be fine."

"You don't know that."

"You're still you. I know you wouldn't hurt me," he stated with conviction.

She remembers wondering what she ever did to deserve his unwavering faith in her. Her eyes blurred with tears, sparse droplets spilling over when she shook her head. "I'd never mean to, but what if—"

"A lot of things could hurt me," he interrupted, casting her tears away with two flicks of his thumb. "That's just how things are…especially in this place."

"I can't let you put yourself at risk because of me. Maybe it would be better if—"

"Lydia, don't. Please don't say what I think you're going to say. Don't even think it." He briefly shut his eyes. When they reopened, his irises were burning with fiery determination. "I promised to help you, and that's what I'm going to do…because I want to, because you're important to me. I'm pretty sure you know that by now. Maybe what you don't know is that there's nothing you could say to me that'll make me change my mind. I get to decide what risks I take. I get to lo—"

She remembers thinking that Stiles was going to say _love,_ and it rendered her speechless.

He bit his lip and glanced downwards, then took a slow breath and made eye contact once more. "I get to care about you, Lydia," he resumed. "I'm _never_ going to stop caring about you."

His promise was the answer to a prayer she had been too afraid to verbalize. Exhaling his name, she dropped her head to his shoulder and pulled him into a hug. As soon as his arms wound around her, all of her pain subsided.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I'm just scared," she admitted in a whisper.

"I know. I am too, but it's less scary when we're together… Isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is."

"We'll figure everything out. Okay? We always do."

Gripping him tighter, she buried her face in his neck. It was warm and safe for her there.

The wind started to strengthen, but Lydia didn't mind because it only succeeded in pushing her nearer to Stiles – his skin heating hers, his scent pervading her lungs, his arms bundling her up in comfort, and his lips resting lightly against her temple. She deliberately shut out the rest of the world, thought only of Stiles and the way he made her feel. _Loved._

They stayed locked together, and she quietly loved him back, which seemed to be the only way she was allowed to just then. She hoped it would be enough, hoped he could feel it too. She remembers wondering if what happened that day had been a sign. Maybe the best thing she could do was to keep her love unspoken; lock it in her heart, protect it until it was safe to tell him. Maybe by then, Stiles would already know, and her words would go straight to his heart without any interference from the outside world.

Eventually, they parted. He smoothed his hand along the length of her ponytail as he said, "Come on… Let me take you home."

Lydia remembers the way he stood up and held out his hands for her. She accepted them and rose to stand beside him. He picked up her books and passed them to her, and she pressed them over her heart, which was thundering inside her rib cage. When he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze, she remembers thinking that in her entire life, nothing would ever compare to being with Stiles. She hoped she would be able to tell him that someday soon.

Together, they walked the rest of the way in silence. Lydia leaned into the solid support of the boy she loved, and his arm never left her shoulders. The sky continually brightened; clouds flowing with the current. By the time they approached her house, the sun had broken through, and everything it touched was highlighted in gold.

They ascended the stone steps that led to the front entrance. She unlocked the door and turned to Stiles. He was looking at her with big brown eyes and a fond expression, and she knew she wasn't ready to let him go.

"Do you want to come in? We could order something to eat…maybe read for a while, and I can always drive you home later." Before he could respond, she weakly tacked on, "Anyway…Prada's been missing you."

She hoped that Stiles would once again hear the words her heart wanted to say: _Please stay with me. I want to be with you._

And he did. _Of course he did._

"She has, huh?" he questioned with a skeptically raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, she has. It's no small thing, you know. She doesn't get attached to just anyone."

"That makes me pretty lucky then…to have her trust me like that," he noted with a smile which put the sun glow that surrounded him to shame. Then, he took her hand, and with it…another piece of her heart.

Lydia led Stiles inside, determined to hold onto her love for him as tightly as he held her hand. She might not be able to openly express how she felt yet, but she would get to love him all the same…and no supernatural force could ever take that away from her.

* * *

 **Present Day**

When Lydia comes to, her eyes quickly scan the space for Stiles. He is a few feet away reading through some forms, but as though she had called his name, he lifts his head and offers her a smile.

She sets down the magazine that still rests in her lap, walks over to him, and tucks herself into his left side. He winds his arm around her and holds her close while he signs the last page. Then, he hands the papers and his key to the clerk, who reminds them that the Jeep will be ready by noon on Tuesday. Stiles thanks him with a handshake before he and Lydia prepare to leave.

They push past the front door, and its bell chimes, causing Lydia to smile fondly at the thought of her newly recovered memory. She steers Stiles away from the shop and turns to face him.

"Everything okay?" he asks, reaching for her waist.

"Yeah," she says, setting her palms over his chest so she can feel his heart. Its cadence is strong and steady, pulling her closer with every beat. "Everything is perfect… I get to love you."

She stretches up to kiss him, right there in the middle of a busy city block. Stiles meets her halfway, eager as always to return the affection. Their smiles collide, his lips are soft as ever, seamlessly fitting with hers because they were always meant to connect like this.

The kiss ends too soon. Fortunately, Stiles doesn't let Lydia go. Instead, he securely embraces her, so her body is flush with his. Mouth grazing her ear, he calls her _angel,_ tells her that the best thing he ever did was fall in love with her, and promises he will never stop.

It's all she needs to hear; all she wants in the world…because the only thing that equals the incredible feeling of being able to show her love for Stiles, is being loved by him in return. Lydia is more certain than ever that when she is with him, she is exactly where she belongs.

Hand in hand, they move forward together, both of them ready to make new memories in sunlight that somehow shines a bit more golden in the City by the Bay.


	16. It Feels Like Home

If you knew how much this moment means to me  
And how long I've waited for your touch  
If you knew how happy you are making me  
I never thought that I'd love anyone so much  
It feels like home to me  
-Feels Like Home by Chantal Kreviazuk

* * *

Lydia and Stiles spend Saturday afternoon at Golden Gate Park with the sun warming their shoulders and frequent wind gusts from the bay keeping them cool. Their hands have been locked together since the moment they stepped away from the auto shop in Hayes Valley. At some point, she is convinced that their palms and fingers might actually fuse together, but he seems as content as she is to maintain contact, so she smiles and doesn't let go.

They wander the park a bit aimlessly at first, but Stiles makes sure that Lydia gets to see every inch of the gardens she had been hoping to visit, and she makes sure that he gets to see the constellation exhibit at the planetarium. As they gaze at the shimmering celestial display, she thinks of the ornaments he gave her last Christmas and senses his affection as ardently as she had that night.

The stars aren't the only things that rekindle good memories. Lydia finds signs of their love everywhere they go…

She hears it, as clear as a bell, in the way he says her name – sometimes spoken aloud, excited and followed by laughter, and other times whispered in her ear, soft and sweet and low. She breathes in their love in the scent of _Sterling_ roses, which bloom in abundance in the north rose garden. She tastes it in the cherry Coke they share while they sit by Stow Lake, and she feels it in the way Stiles holds her close to him – same as he does when they settle onto their bench in Lynbrook Park.

The more they are together, the stronger their bond becomes. It manifests itself within the erratic thudding behind her ribs; long looks, tethered hands, and occasional kisses inspiring her heart to race and slow…race and slow…because of Stiles.

Their love is everywhere. It changes everything, and very quickly, this new place they are in starts to feel like home.

* * *

In the evening, they cross town to have dinner at a sidewalk café in North Beach's Little Italy. The sun is just beginning to set, tinting the sky every color of the rainbow. Lydia pries her attention from Stiles's face long enough to pick an entrée from the menu, deliberately choosing something she knows he will enjoy. He does the same for her. They share a wonderful meal, all the while their hands, which are resting on the table, are gradually being attracted closer and closer…until the tips of their fingers meet in the gentlest of caresses.

Stiles finally shakes his head, grinning when he asks, "What are we doing?"

"I have no idea," she remarks with confounded amazement.

"Here…" He picks up her hand, kissing it before weaving their fingers together. "This is better. Isn't it?"

"Much," she smiles back.

The rest of the sunset is lost on her – because once Lydia catches sight of his eyes shining in a mixture of candle and sun light, nothing else can draw her attention. She is falling more in love with Stiles, with each passing minute. He is so smart, and witty, and thoughtful…and his hand fits so perfectly with hers…and he is looking at her with such devotion, years of love radiating from his expression…and _God,_ she just wants to keep talking to him about everything and even nothing at all. So she does.

They talk, and they don't stop until they notice that they are the last two people on the patio. Realizing that they have probably more than outstayed their welcome, Lydia and Stiles make sure to leave a generous tip for the server before they leave.

After the last rays of daylight have diminished, streetlamps flicker on, making the pavement sparkle beneath their feet and lighting the way to the bed and breakfast. The neighborhood still swirls with activity, but for Lydia, time seems to slow down. Stiles has his arm around her now, somehow offering the rigid support of a steel beam while simultaneously coddling her with softness and warmth. He kisses the top of her head when she winds her arm behind him; thumb hooking into the belt loop of his jeans, other four digits dangling aside his hip.

Along the way, they come across a flower shop, its storefront lined with buckets, each of them overflowing with blossoms. Stiles buys Lydia a blush pink dahlia, like the ones he had waiting for her on the night he brought her home, the night he pushed away the darkness of Eichen House and brought her back to life with the sheer strength of his love. It seems even more fitting when the florist informs them that dahlias are San Francisco's official city flower. Lydia can't help feeling like they were meant to end up in this place. _Together._

They walk the last several blocks quietly, stopping more than once to kiss under a waning crescent moon. Sparks fly between them like fireworks, humidity of the evening air cloaking them like a blanket. _It feels like home._

When they enter their room, tiredness hits her. It's the good kind of tired though – the kind that makes her more aware of her body; legs and feet tingling from ascending and descending the hills of the city, abdominals exhausted from hours of laughter and clenching with desire, cheeks sore from smiling at her love, and eyes strained from trying to take it all in.

As if he can read her mind, Stiles leads Lydia to the adjoining bathroom. She fills a vase with some water for her dahlia, while he runs the bath. They make effortless work of undressing each other. A glimmer of a smile forms on her lips, and she sees it reflecting back at her; right corner of his mouth uplifting as his eyes roam over her naked figure.

She thinks of how shy Stiles was the first time she saw him like this, how his cheeks tinged pink and his chest swelled with uneven breaths, how his hands trembled…but only until they made contact with her hips. Then they were steady, heat of them burning into her skin, scorching past nerve and muscle, searing the imprint of his love right down to her bones. She felt it then, as fervently as she feels it now. _It feels like home._

Lydia reaches for him – _her beautiful Stiles._ As she adoringly traces the muscles of his arms, chest, and stomach, her limbs quiver with want. Stiles doesn't hesitate to respond. One of his hands cups the back of her head, the other lies flat on her lower back as he leans down to kiss her – his manner _oh, so tender_ it makes her ache. Her instinct is to deepen it, to rise to the tips of her toes and push her body and her lips into his, so she can connect with every part of him. But she doesn't. She can already feel _so much_ from just this. It's slow and easy, their mouths barely grazing, bodies hardly making contact. It's also powerfully intense, invisible strings between them pulling tighter and tighter, vibrating with tension.

They part, both a bit breathless, and Stiles mutters something about water but she can't hear over the thundering of her own heartbeat. When she gives him a weak nod, he kisses her cheek, faint chuckle rolling past his vocal cords before he turns to shut the faucet.

She stands there, in complete awe of him, wondering if this is how it will always be – a continuous state of flux – excitement and calm at the touch of his lips or the sound of his voice. Without a doubt, Lydia knows she is more than happy to live her entire life under his spell.

Stiles lowers himself into the water and props his spine against the slope of the tub. "You joining me or what, Lyds?"

She tosses him a coy smile while she clips her braid to the top of her crown. "Are you sure there's room for me? I wouldn't want to crowd you."

"We'll figure it out," he answers, charming her towards him with a wink and a crooked grin.

Carefully, Lydia steps into the bathtub, seating herself between his legs before sinking into his open arms. The contented hum that elevates from the back of his throat when she reclines against his chest does not go unnoticed.

Bathing together in a claw-foot tub is fairly tricky, but well worth the effort because the water is pleasantly warm, and Stiles is working his magic on her fatigued body. Lydia focuses on the way he touches her. His hands are gentle and reverent. They not only seek out, but also expertly locate every point of tension that needlessly encumbers her. The pressure of his palms is confident, calloused skin of his fingertips anything but rough, thumbs and knuckles skillfully persuading her muscles to unwind.

He wraps his left arm around her, gripping her shoulder and holding her close to him, then his right dips below the water to tend to the base of her spine. Lydia is conscious of the reedy echo that fills the room when she moans his name, but she can't even bother to be embarrassed by how affected she is because it all feels _so good_ , and because she loves him _so much._

She curls her hands over his knees and lets her head fall back to his shoulder, marveling at his ability to know how she wants to be held. He has always known, always been able to read and understand her, always treated her like she was more than a body – a whole person with a mind, and a heart, and a soul.

"How do you do that?" she sighs.

"Do what?" he asks, cheek pressed to hers, his exhale tickling her lips.

"Always hold me in ways that feel right."

He shrugs when he replies, "I dunno…it's easy. We just…fit…and when I touch you, I always want you to be able to feel how much I love you." He nuzzles her temple with his nose then proceeds to pepper sweet kisses along her ear, jawline, and neck, stopping to speak after nipping at her pulse point. "It's no different from what you do for me."

"You mean that," she states. It's not a question. She knows he does. He wouldn't say it otherwise.

But it's even better when he confirms, "Yeah, of course."

Her throat constricts with emotion, and she turns her head so she can see him. "Good, because I really want that." She lifts her hand to caress his face, leaving a beaded trail of droplets on his cheek to match the ones that are sneaking out of her eyes. "Stiles, you show me so much…make me feel so much, and I want to do that for you…to give you all the things you give me… Everything."

Her words are coming out in a jumble, and she is annoyed with herself for not making any sense, but his next kiss communicates absolute understanding, and all of her frustration dissolves.

"You do, Lydia. You give me everything I need…and so much more."

He sounds composed but his heart is speeding up, nudging against her back, calling out for her. She kisses him softly, paying close attention to his beats until they even out again. His arms envelop her as his chest expands and contracts with full breaths. Their bodies rise and fall in unison, relaxed and at peace, anchoring presence of their love keeping them both exactly where they are supposed to be. _Together._

She could stay like this forever. Warm and safe _with Stiles_ , his perfect form fitting around her like a second skin. _It feels like home_.

* * *

A while later, they are getting ready for bed. Lydia observes her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair is down, and she has brushed it thoroughly, polishing the waves left behind by her braid to a silky finish. She doesn't have a stitch of makeup on, but beneath her freckles, her cheeks are blushed to a hue of petal pink. There is a familiar tugging behind her ribs, reminding her that Stiles is a few feet away in the bedroom. The door between the two spaces is only slightly cracked open, but she is aware of the cadence of his pacing steps while he quietly talks on the phone. Her desire to get back to him is fierce, but she gives him some time.

After she straightens the straps of her nightgown, she smooths the edges of the fabric where it skims the midpoint of her thighs. It's satin; simple and unadorned, in a pale silver-blue shade. She pauses to imagine the expression on Stiles's face when he sees her wearing it, because it's new and he will know that she bought it with him in mind. Lydia is sure that he would be just as pleased if she were wearing one of his old tee shirts, but this is their first vacation together, and she wants to show him how special it is to her, how special _he_ is to her.

When the air conditioning kicks on, it creates a draft, pushing the door open a bit further and carrying Stiles's voice into the room. That is when she hears him say, " _Dad, I knew she was incredible. I knew I loved being with her, you know…but this…getting to be with her like this… I can't even describe it. Maybe it's this place… She's so relaxed here, and I love seeing her so happy. I love her so much."_

The breath hitches in Lydia's throat, and her hand reflexively braces against her sternum. She knows Stiles loves her. She does. But hearing him articulate those words…to his father…and with such raw emotion, does something to her on the inside, something profoundly transformative.

She takes a minute to collect herself, then opens the door the rest of the way. Stiles is sitting on the bed now. His head turns in her direction, eyebrows arched and eyes widening as they land on her. He smiles, bright as the sun, then finishes saying good night to his dad before setting his phone on the nightstand.

Before he has the chance to utter another syllable, Lydia calls from the doorway, "It's not this place, silly… It's you. Stiles, it's you."

"You heard that…huh?" he acknowledges a bit timidly as he reaches out for her.

Her legs carry her to him, black cotton of his boxer shorts swishing against the outside of her thighs as she stands between his knees. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop... The door just kind of opened."

"S'okay," he assures her, curling his palms around her hips. "It's no secret anyway. I love seeing you so happy…and if I have anything to do with it—"

"Not _if_ …" she interrupts, cradling his face in her hands. "You _do._ You have _everything_ to do with how happy I am…and I'm going to keep telling you until you know it."

He gives her an upside-down smile and hugs her; long arms encircling her waist, forehead on her collarbone. He holds her like that while she rubs his back, warm skin and even warmer heart beneath her palms.

Stiles eventually loosens his arms and puts a small amount of space between them. "Look at you… Wow… Just…wow…"

"You like it?"

"When it comes to you, _love_ is always a more accurate word _,"_ he corrects her, pulling her back into his embrace. "You're so beautiful…everything about you, and I love you so much."

"I love you too."

She presses her smile to his forehead, and he squeezes her tighter.

"I had the best day with you, Lyds. I don't want it to end."

The bittersweet flavor of his statement registers on her tongue. "Me neither, but we're going to have so many more days like this. I know it."

"Yeah, we are… Tomorrow for starters…" he notes before glancing over her shoulder at the clock, "or should I say today? It's after midnight."

"Already?"

"Yeah," he nods, gliding his hands over the curves of her backside to encourage her into his lap. "How about we lie down in our bed, so I can hold you some more?"

"How about you hold me all night?"

"Mmm…" he coos, stamping kisses on her neck that make her tingle inside. "You got it."

Stiles switches off the lamp. Lydia can't see him any longer, but she can feel his every move. He stills briefly, then fastens both of his arms around her. She giggles with delight as he rolls her into bed with him, stopping when they are on their sides, facing each other. A blissful dizzying sensation overtakes her as she settles onto her pillow. Within seconds, Lydia and Stiles are snuggled underneath the covers, the heat of his skin seeping into hers, melding their bodies until they feel like one being. She is surrounded by the scent of him, the softness and the strength of him, consumed by the unmatched comfort he offers in the most natural and instinctive of ways. _It feels like home_.

With all of her focus aimed at the connection they share, she lazily drags her fingertips along the sides of his torso. She knows he loves that. The way he responds with barely perceptible, throaty moans does not disappoint. The unhurried pace of their touches resets her heart, and gradually, the need for sleep begins to take hold. She notices that Stiles is playing with the ends of her hair and his eyelashes are beating against her temple like butterfly wings, two tell-tale signs that he is getting drowsy too.

"You tired?" she asks.

"Yeah. You?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are you…too tired to kiss me good night?"

She lets out a breathy laugh. "Never."

She tilts her head up, and their noses bump, then she guides his lips to hers in the darkness. He sighs into her mouth as his hand wanders beneath her nightgown, searching for and finding its place; palm clasping her hip, fingers splayed across the small of her back.

They're tired, but not too tired to kiss; slowly, deliberately, fully imparted with passion. Tired, but not too tired to spend a few more minutes whispering sweet things to each other. Tired, but not too tired to exchange one last I love you before they drift to dreamland in the tranquil respite of each other's arms.

* * *

On Sunday morning Lydia wakes, energy completely renewed from a restful night in a comfy bed. Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles as her vision clears to reveal the most beautiful sight – Stiles. He is in peaceful sleep, lying on his side, hair a flawless mess, cheek smashed into the pillow they share. His left hand clutches hers, and his opposite arm is draped over her body.

She thinks of how often she has awakened with Stiles beside her in the last weeks, recalls some occasions from even before they were a couple as well, but when she tries to remember the first time it happened, she draws a blank.

A sharp twinge jabs at the center of her chest. It hurts not to remember. She purses her lips for a second, then extinguishes a shaky breath. She looks at Stiles; sunlight glinting off his skin and rows of dark lashes, his perfect lips, parted, and pink, and curled up on one side. He deserves better than the blank spaces in her memory. She bows her head to tenderly kiss his thumb – a silent apology. He doesn't wake, but he grips her hand more firmly before murmuring a single word in the midst of sleep. _Lyds._

Her eyes widen, and her heart leaps forward. It feels like a clue; the answer to her question falling slowly from his lips…like one of his divine kisses when she is longing for affection. Lydia keeps her eyes on Stiles, the boy who always helps her figure things out…and suddenly, she remembers.

 _She remembers a weekend during junior year – the first time they fell asleep and woke up together..._

* * *

Lydia and Stiles were in his room on a Saturday night in February. He was seated at his desk, chewing on his thumbnail, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as he scanned the content of a bulky, leather-bound book. She was sitting cross-legged on his bed, plaid comforter sprawled beneath her, a slightly smaller text flipped open on her lap. She remembers pursing her lips as she stared down at pages that were tattered at the edges and darkened with age.

For most of the afternoon and evening, they had been relentlessly researching banshee folklore. Not just banshees, but also sirens, caoineag, women in white…any supernatural being that was in any way related to the murky legend that had somehow become part of her reality.

She remembers checking her phone. It was 9:22 p.m. Another day, another pile of books, yet _still_ no insight on how to focus her so-called abilities. She was tired. The kind of tired that gave her a headache. The kind of tired that made her want to put everything aside, shut the lights, throw the covers over her head, and think of nothing but things that made her happy. That was when her thoughts wandered…to Stiles.

In the nearly three weeks that preceded, the nearly three weeks since _she kissed him_ , they had been spending the majority of their time together. No matter how the day began or progressed, she would inevitably end up within the four cozy walls of his room, safe and secure in the place he called _home._

There was always a good reason, of course – studying for an exam, working on the history project they had been assigned, or their current preoccupation…the tedious and so far, unsuccessful business of banshee research. But all of those good reasons were beginning to feel like a pretense, and behind that pretense was the simple truth.

The simple truth was, every day, it was becoming clearer to Lydia that the amount of time she was spending with Stiles had very little to do with reason and a great deal more to do with _feeling_. The truth was, when she was with him, she felt…good. The truth was, the more time she spent in his room, the more she wanted to be there. The truth was, it was starting to feel like more than just a room – because of Stiles.

Stiles who tugged at her heart with his gorgeous brown eyes, shy smile, nervous fidgeting, and sarcastic tendencies. Stiles whose presence always put her at ease…at least it did _after_ her heart managed to recover some semblance of a normal rhythm, usually following one of his gentle touches or softly spoken words. Stiles whom she kissed once and had thought about kissing countless times since.

Lydia remembers that her eyes kept peering in his direction, until she gave in and discreetly watched him. There was obvious tension in his body language; his left hand rubbing at the base of his neck, his right twirling a pen, and his mouth gathered into a pout. She could practically feel the anxiety compiling inside of him.

In the past weeks, he had been running himself ragged because, in addition to keeping up with his usual responsibilities, he was trying to help her make sense of this nebulous and illogical part of herself, otherwise known as _being a banshee._ She remembers thinking that Stiles had to be just as tired and stressed as she was, and she felt a harsh pang of guilt when she saw how focused he continued to be while she was…daydreaming about him… _again._

Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she silently reprimanded herself, then returned her attention to the book she was supposed to be reading.

The text seemed to glare back at her. She read the same line…again and again: _The banshee is a_ _harbinger of death._

It was one of the few commonalities in each of the volumes they had been struggling to decipher, and the concept made her blood run cold. How was she supposed to live her life knowing she was intrinsically linked with death?

The other recurring theme: _Banshees appear to have a supernatural connection to others of their kind._

Lydia guessed it should have made her feel better to learn that she might share a bond with others like herself, but it didn't. In fact, the idea frightened her more than it consoled her. For one thing, she didn't know any other banshees, wasn't even sure that she wanted to. For another, the paranormal nexus she had been reading about seemed volatile and unpredictable, dark and morbid. It couldn't be anything like the very human connection she had with Stiles. The one that was tethered to signs of life – her heartbeat and breaths. The one that was bright, like the light in his eyes, and which manifested in the sensation of butterflies in her stomach. The one that made her feel protected and part of something innocent and pure, and that also made her feel grounded, and understood…and loved. The one that she wanted to fully explore but couldn't…because the constant state of turmoil they lived in always got in the way.

She had the distinct impression of being stretched thin, her mind fraught with questions and her heart amplified with emotion, most of which she didn't feel prepared to deal with that night and probably wouldn't anytime soon. She remembers being disappointed in herself for not being able to compartmentalize, for not being stronger, for not walking over to Stiles, admitting that she was falling in love with him, and kissing him until he knew she meant it.

She was spiraling downwards, but then, the call of his voice halted her regression.

"What's going on over there?"

She gaped at him, wondering if he had been reading her mind instead of the book that was in front of him. "What?" she responded, attempting to sound nonchalant.

"Lydia, I can tell how irritated you're getting… Your eyebrow is doing that thing," he explained, gesturing towards her with his pen, "and you haven't said a word in twenty-six minutes. In fact, you're so quiet that I wasn't even sure you were breathing just now."

Acutely submersed in thought, she hadn't even realized that Stiles was observing her as intently as she was observing him.

"I'm fine," she fibbed.

He quirked his mouth disapprovingly, tossed his pen on the desk, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Alright…I'm irritated."

"And…"

"And…I can't look at this anymore," she groaned, closing her book with irritation and staring down at her hands. "How is a book that was probably translated one too many times from when it was originally written in the Middle Ages going to be of any use?"

When she worked up the nerve to glance at Stiles again, he was already regarding her with a sympathetic expression. Lydia remembers that he got up from the desk and crossed the room to sit next to her, close enough that her knee was pressed into his thigh.

He took the hardcover from her lap, placed it on his nightstand, and turned to face her. "Look, I know this is…beyond frustrating. I'm frustrated too, but there's gotta be _something_ in one of these…ridiculously boring…archaically written, translations of texts that Deaton gave us." He made the statement in a single breath, then sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

"And if there isn't?"

"Then we'll find another way…" he shrugged, "and another…and another…until we figure this out."

"You make it seem so simple," she commented.

"Maybe it can be."

"Nothing ever is," she griped, averting her eyes from his hopeful gaze.

He set his hand on her right shoulder, encouraging her towards him until she made eye contact. "Hey, you're not giving up on me… Are you? That's not like you."

Saying yes might have been the right thing to do. Saying yes might have freed Stiles of the burden he had assumed when he promised to help her – but selfish as it was, Lydia didn't want to let him go. Not then. _Not ever_. Even just the thought of doing so pained her so severely that she could scarcely breathe.

She could never give up on Stiles.

"No," she said, setting her hand on his knee for balance. "No," she repeated, "but Stiles, we've been at this for almost three weeks and…we're coming up with more questions than answers. Maybe we're fooling ourselves to think that…" She abruptly trailed off. It pierced her heart to see the hurt that was shadowing his face.

He remained silent, tongue poking at his bottom lip.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. You've been so patient through all of this…so patient with me…more than I—"

"You don't have to apologize," he interrupted. "It's okay. I get it."

"It's not okay. This isn't fair to you. You could be doing something… _anything_ else with your time. I don't even know where to begin to thank you for everything you've done."

"Lydia, stop. We've already been through this. First of all, I'm exactly where I want to be. Second, you don't have to thank me. This is…what we do for each other."

How could she argue with that? He was right. She would do the same for him. She wouldn't even have to think about it, and she wouldn't be dissuaded from helping him, no matter how he might protest. All she could do was smile at him.

He smiled back and continued, "I mean, don't get me wrong... I wish we were doing something a little more—"

"Fun?"

"At this point…I'd settle for dull and normal."

She sniggered through an exhale.

"But even though reading hundreds of pages of poorly translated, primitive…Goidelic about fairy-like women who wandered around villages in creepy grey cloaks isn't especially fun or normal…none of that changes the fact that the company is pretty great."

Fighting her increasingly blurry vision, she smiled again. "Yeah, it is," she agreed.

In the gentlest of ways, his hand started rubbing her upper arm over the heather grey top she had on. It slipped off her shoulder, revealing the thin strap of the camisole she wore underneath, but Stiles promptly readjusted it. Lydia remembers struggling even harder to withhold tears. He was always so respectful of her, only ever touched her in ways that felt right, in ways that conveyed care. She wondered if her touches made him feel the same.

Before she knew it, she was curling her hand around his neck and guiding him closer. Their foreheads connected, and by some miraculous means of silent communication, they inhaled and exhaled together. The stubborn, yet reassuring tugging stirred in her chest as Stiles leaned into her, and the memory of the kiss they shared resurfaced. He was _so close,_ and she wanted to kiss him _so badly._ But she couldn't mess this up. She promised herself she would wait until it was safe, until she knew more about herself – for both their sakes. So instead of kissing Stiles, Lydia spoke quietly to him.

"Do you think we could take a break from research for a while?"

"Uh…yeah," he swallowed with apparent difficulty, "of course."

Reluctantly pulling away, Lydia let her hand slide down his arm, then withdrew it to her lap.

Stiles slowly opened his eyes and surveyed the room as though he was unsure of what to do next. Then he stood, picked up her nearly empty glass of water, and offered, "How about a refill?"

"Maybe something a bit stronger?" she suggested, knowing full well that he would understand what she meant.

The tension instantly left him, and he chuckled. "Hot cocoa it is," he replied with a wink and a nod. "Come on…"

He offered her his hand, and she willingly accepted, getting up from the bed and letting him lead her into the kitchen.

As he prepared the cocoa, Lydia took two mugs from the cabinet and quickly located the marshmallows from the pantry before returning to his side. She remembers thinking that she was standing closer than she should have been, but she couldn't help it. The closer they were, the more right it felt.

Stiles didn't seem to mind her invasion of his personal space. When necessary, he simply reached around her or lightly rested his fingers on her back, steering her body in the right direction but always closing the distance between them if it exceeded more than a few inches.

Her curiosity got the better of her as she observed him pouring the hot cocoa into their mugs and methodically dropping eight mini marshmallows into each. "Why eight?" she inquired as he snapped the lid onto the container of cocoa.

"Huh?"

Her question appeared to have caught him off guard, so she clarified, "Whenever we do this, you always put eight marshmallows in each mug."

"Oh…yeah…" he began, depositing the utensils he had used in the sink. "It's kind of a…family tradition."

Lydia waited while he nibbled on his lip, expression soft but pensive.

Stiles turned so they were facing each other, his hand clasping the edge of the countertop, like he needed something to hold onto. "It was something my mom started. She always said eight was her lucky number…because it was the date in August when she met my dad, the number of houses they looked at before they found this one…she found out she was pregnant in her eighth week…" He blinked rapidly, and his volume reduced until it was whisper low.

"And because it was the day you were born – the 8th of April," she finished for him.

"Yeah."

The room fell silent, and Lydia worried that she had overstepped some invisible line. She gingerly placed her hand on top of his, eager to make amends. "Stiles, is it okay that I asked you about this?"

He nodded and wet his lips. "Yeah… Yeah, of course it is."

She stepped towards him, keeping her eyes on his, "Are you sure?"

"It's okay…really." Lifting his fingers from the counter, he curled them around her wrist. "I like talking about her. I don't do it enough…not even with my dad."

"Why?"

"I dunno… She's on my mind a lot but…sometimes it's difficult to get the words out."

"Well…if it helps…you could talk about her with me, anytime you want. It might be easier…since I didn't really know her." She inched still nearer; her eyes fixed on his. "I would have liked to though."

"Thanks, Lydia. That means a lot to me." He touched her cheek, feather-light, but impactful as a lightning bolt, and her heart responded by pausing, then furiously resuming its beats. "I wish you had gotten to know each other too. She would have really liked you."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it."

They looked at each other for a long moment before Stiles gave Lydia a shy smile and passed one of the mugs to her. He took the other for himself, and together they walked back to his room, his hand hovering at her shoulder blade.

"So, what do you want to do? We could watch a movie…or you can crush me at chess…again."

Either of those options would have been fine, but there was one thing Lydia wanted more than anything else.

"Could we just talk some more?"

"Yeah, definitely. I'd like that."

For the next half of an hour, they sat on his bed sipping their cocoa and talking about anything and everything that came to their minds. The sound of their hushed tones contrasted dramatically with random outbursts of uncontrollable laughter which filled the room with a vibrant melody, one that Lydia was certain she would never tire of hearing. The adoration she had for Stiles was growing exponentially; each little touch between them encouraging the flame that he sparked within the most carefully guarded chambers of her heart.

Every so often, they naturally shifted positions, until they were lying on their backs, side by side, with their heads turned so they were facing each other. Although it was late, and Lydia's eyes were stinging with exhaustion, she willed them to stay open. The bedside lamp cast just enough light for her to quietly admire Stiles – with an open heart and without interference – like she had been longing to do.

The way he was smiling at her made everything else fade into darkness. She was in his bed, surrounded by the things that made him comfortable, breathing in the scent of him, listening to the soothing tenor of his evening voice, which was raspy with fatigue but laced with happiness and hope.

Gradually, they let silence engulf them, and Lydia watched with captivated fascination as Stiles drifted to sleep beside her. She remembers telling herself that she should leave, convincing herself that she would…after she briefly rested her eyes.

The last thing she remembers from that night was the sweet sight of his face as her eyelids fell shut – just for a few minutes…then she would leave. Just for a few minutes…and then…

* * *

She remembers the sunlight that summoned her from a rejuvenating sleep and the fragrance of pine needles that wafted from her pillow. Not her pillow. _His pillow._

She slept. All night. In his bed. _With him – Stiles._

That had never happened before.

A shockwave jolted through her, racing her heart and causing her eyes to flash open. But then, she took in the image before her – the boy she loved sleeping peacefully, right next to her – and every ounce of apprehension immediately evaporated.

He was lying on his side, illuminated in pale golden rays, his hair unruly, and his cheek smashed into the same pillow that cradled her head. His lashes, dense and dark, were shading the skin under his eyes, and his lips, parted and pink, were curling up on one side. He was so beautiful that it almost hurt to look at him, but she couldn't have pried her eyes away from him if she tried. The tugging in her chest was motivating her to keep Stiles in view whenever possible. He helped her heartbeat stabilize, helped her breathe, helped her slowly become aware of her body.

Lydia remembers the strand of hair that tickled her cheek as she smiled. When she thought to swipe it aside, she realized that her left hand was joined with his; bundled mass of digits which she was clutching to her chest, his knuckles pressing into the skin below her collarbone. As she inhaled deeper, she noticed the weight of his arm…which was draped over her side. She had no memory of how they ended up in their embrace, but she does remember what it felt like – excitement and calm all at once. It felt good and right. It felt like what she always imagined it could feel like to wake up next to someone she loved. _It felt like home._

She hated the thought of waking him. Luckily, she didn't have to. When she involuntarily shivered from the whirlwind of emotion that was brewing inside of her, Stiles woke on his own.

His eyelids fluttered, amber irises they had been concealing from her coming into focus. "G'morning, Lyds," he sighed, muffled greeting laden with sleep as he tightened his grip on her hand.

Her heart skipped.

 _Lyds…_

That had never happened before either.

She was about to say something, but his eyes closed again, so she waited, counting down…three…two…one…

"Lydia?" His eyes flashed open – wide with surprise.

 _He's so adorable_. "Good morning," she said gently, hoping to put him at ease.

It seemed to work. He relaxed, then cleared his throat. "I guess we…fell asleep," he commented with a hesitant grin.

"I guess so."

He seemed to suddenly realize the intimate way their limbs were intertwined, and he began to move his arm from where it was settled into the curve of her waist. Lydia remembers bracing herself for the impending loss of contact but, as if Stiles could sense that she wanted to be held by him, he stopped.

"Did you uh… Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah. You?" she answered.

"Yeah, I slept great," he told her, finally breaking into a smile.

"I didn't mean to crash here. I was only going to rest my eyes for a couple of minutes…and the next thing I knew…it was morning."

"It's okay." He lifted his hand to sweep away the strand of hair that had been teasing her cheek, ridding her mind of any leftover uncertainty along with it. "You're always welcome here."

After that, she couldn't stop smiling at him. It didn't matter that her hair was probably a tangled mess or that she might have pillow creases on her face. It didn't matter that her arm was beginning to numb or that her leggings were twisting at the ankle. She was _with Stiles,_ and if it were up to her, Lydia would have stayed like that forever.

He touched her smile, sending another surge of electricity through her body. "Feeling better this morning?"

"Yeah."

"Good. You know, Lydia…when it gets to be too much…you don't have to keep it all in or wait for me to ask what's wrong. You can just talk to me."

"I know but…every time I get discouraged…"

"What?"

"I feel like I'm letting you down."

His eyebrows cinched together, and he shook his head. "You're not…not at all. You're dealing with so much right now, of course it's gonna get overwhelming sometimes, but I'd rather you tell me how you feel. You've never had to pretend about anything…not with me. This is no different. All you have to do is tell me what you need."

In his eyes, she saw sincerity, patience, and love…and it made her brave enough to admit, "I need _this_ …what we have."

"I do too. So, there's nothing to worry about then. From now on, it will be easier. We'll just keep trying, go at our own pace, until we get it right. Promise?"

She brought their joined hands closer to her chest, hoping he could feel her heartbeat when she said, "Promise."

For a moment, they lie there, in comfortable silence, then they eased back into conversation…like always. Stiles made her laugh until the work ahead of them seemed more like a challenge than a hindrance.

When the light in the room progressed to bright white, he glanced at the clock behind her head. "It's almost ten… Are you hungry? I'm sure there's enough food in the fridge for us to scrape together a decent breakfast."

Lydia still didn't want to let go of him, but the notion of making breakfast together was incredibly appealing.

"Yeah. That sounds good."

They disentangled and got out of bed. Stiles wiped the traces of sleep from his eyes as he stretched his back. Lydia remembers the way the lines of his muscles popped under his red tee shirt. She caught herself slipping into another daydream, when he roughly ran his fingers through his hair and reached for her hand. He was about to advance towards the door, but she tugged on his arm.

"Stiles?"

He turned to stand in front of her. "Yeah?"

"I was just wondering…"

"About what?"

"Before…you called me…Lyds…"

"I—I did?" he grimaced, then covered his face with his other hand. "Uh…sorry about that. It won't happen again."

"It won't?"

He let his hand drop, hint of embarrassment splotching his cheeks, resilient inflection when he amended, "Well…I mean…not unless you want it to…"

"Can I hear it again?"

"Lyds," he graciously obliged. "What do you think? Is it too weird?"

She tilted her head and looked up at the ceiling, like she was pondering some kind of life altering decision…when she had already made up her mind. She loved it from the first time she heard it, and she wanted to hear him call her _Lyds_ for the rest of her life.

"You know…I think I could get used to it…" she conceded, then added, "as long as you're the only one who calls me that."

His smile returned, dazzling as ever. "That works for me," he replied. Keeping hold of her right hand, he towed her a couple of steps away from the bed. "Come on, Lyds… Better fuel up…'cause we've got more research to do."

She remembers the euphoria that coursed through her veins when he playfully spun her in a circle. Her hair flared outwards in every direction, the sunlit room blurring into a kaleidoscope of colors. She remembers the lyrical quality of their laughter that directly followed, the way Stiles caught her in his arms, and how perfectly she fit into his embrace.

It felt like belonging and acceptance. It felt like friendship and so much more. It felt like falling in Love.

 _It felt like home._

* * *

 **Present Day**

The sublime feeling of butterfly kisses on Lydia's shoulder coaxes her out of the past and into the present. Stiles is awake now, weight of his body leaning into her, his lips repeatedly puckering beneath her collarbone.

Her heart quickens when he whispers, "G'morning, Lyds," same as he did in her memory.

Thankful for the closeness between them, she winds her arms around him, welcoming him nearer. "It _is_ a good morning. Isn't it?... Just like the first time we woke up together."

He arches back to look at her. "You remember," he smiles, face alight with happiness.

"I remember…and you helped me."

"How did I do that?"

"By being your adorable self and talking while you're still half asleep."

He cringes, scrunching up his face and squinting at her through one eye. "What did I say?"

"Don't worry…" she assures him, cupping his cheeks with both hands. "It was nothing embarrassing. I promise. I was lying here, trying to remember…and it hurt so much because I couldn't." Her breath catches in her throat, but Stiles gives her an encouraging kiss and she continues, "But then, you said _Lyds_ …like you _knew_ what I was searching for and you were giving me a hint. Between that and the way we were holding each other…the memory came back." She draws a little heart on his cheek with her index finger and smiles when she sees the corners of his mouth reflect his contentment. "Somehow, you always manage to fill in all the blank spaces in my life – just by being you."

"It's not me though. It's _us._ When we're together, everything makes sense, everything falls into place."

"Yes, it does."

Stiles rolls onto his back, and Lydia shifts under the covers with him, laying her head on his chest. She listens to his heart and feels the harmony of his affection resonating against her eardrum as he speaks to her.

"You know, when I woke up, I could have sworn that we were in my bed. Ever since we got here, everything we see or do reminds me of us. In less than a day, this city that we've never been to…it feels like home."

"I feel it too. That's what I meant last night. I'm having a great time here, but it's not this place that's making me so happy…it's being with you. Stiles, _you_ are my home…and as long as we're together—"

"Then we've got everything," he finishes for her, eyes taking on a glossy sheen.

"Yeah, we do."

They spend some time reminiscing, then a fair bit more kissing before getting out of bed. When they do, Stiles takes Lydia's hand and spins her, just like in her memory. But this time, when he catches her, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her. This time, there is no space between them, not a hint of hesitation. This time, they are just two hearts, openly brimming with love for each other.

After layering on some extra clothing, they head downstairs to the dining area. They load their plates and retreat to their room, so they can share breakfast as well as a few secrets in the cozy alcove of the turret. Golden sunlight drenches the small space as sheer curtains blow in the breeze and open windows frame their perspective of the teal blue waters of the bay. It feels like Lydia and Stiles are tucked into their own little safe haven. _Together._ It feels like all that exists are their two souls and the ethereal power of their bond. _It feels like home._

* * *

At around noon, they head to AT&T Park for the rubber game of the Mets and Giant's series. The ballpark is striking; emerald green grass, reddish-brown earth, and a peeking view of the bay from their seats on the third base side of the field.

Lydia had fully intended to pay attention to the pre-game events, but Stiles is much more interesting. He is sitting next to her, handsome as ever in a royal blue henley, khakis, and of course, his Mets cap. His elbow is set on their shared armrest, _so close_ that she can't help but want to touch him. She caresses the length of his forearm, their hands magnetically clasping together when she passes his wrist. The seats around them swiftly fill, and the noise level increases considerably, but they make the best of it by speaking directly into each other's ears and trading tiny kisses in between.

Once the first pitch has been thrown, he is slightly less talkative, but still super focused and expressive, and he never lets go of her hand. The Giants take an early lead after a particularly bad call by the home plate umpire. Lydia tries…and fails not to laugh at the way Stiles is still grumbling about it in the top of the next inning when his Mets are up to bat. She ducks her head and tightly purses her lips, but he hooks his index finger under her chin, tilting her head upwards, so their eyes meet.

"What?" he asks, tone somewhere between defensive and totally smitten.

"Nothing?"

"Lydiaaa…"

She gives in; fondness bubbling through her body and emerging in laughter. Then, she takes a breath and gathers enough strength in her voice to affirm, "I just love you, that's all."

She means it too. She loves everything about him…who he is, what he is passionate about…everything. She loves him at every time of the day and in every place they have ever been.

His countenance softens in _that way_ that it does – only for her, and she knows he understands that her words are earnest.

Stiles leans in until they are nose to nose. "That's all…huh?"

"Yeah."

"That's everything to me," he tells her before eliminating the last bit of space between them with a kiss.

Even with the palpable roar of the crowd, Lydia can hear her heart pounding in her ears as it races and slows…races and slows. The bill of his cap shades her from the sun while he creates beautiful shapes with their mouths, warming her from the inside out.

As they part, the cracking sound of a bat draws their attention. Lydia watches in awe as Stiles stands, eyes going wide as he reaches high into the air…higher still…

And then, she hears the baseball _slap_ against the inside of his hand, sees his fingers close around it, and lovingly recognizes the delighted amazement on his face when he realizes that he just caught a foul ball.

She springs from her seat to get closer to him. Mouth agape, Stiles stares down at his palm. Strangers are congratulating him, patting his shoulders and complimenting him on what a great catch he made, but when Lydia places her hand over his heart, his name inaudibly kissing her lips, Stiles turns to her, smiling bright enough to light the entire city. She can feel his body quake with excitement, so she hugs him. They cling to each other, everything else that surrounds them disappearing from view.

Nestled into the crook of his neck, Lydia can't stop smiling. Stiles deserves countless moments like this in his life. She is so glad that she is with him for this one, and dreams of all the others that lie ahead of them.

Eventually, they take their seats. For the rest of the game, the glow never fades from his face. The Mets lag behind for seven innings, but Stiles tells her not to worry because they have a flair for dramatic wins…and he is right. His team jumps ahead by an amazing eight runs in the top of the eighth inning, and they never look back.

Lydia and Stiles remain in their seats as the park empties. His arm is securely draped over her shoulder, thumb and index finger twirling flyaway strands that have escaped from her up-do. As he texts his dad and Scott with the selfie she took of them, Lydia decides it's her new favorite photo. She is sitting in Stiles's lap, both of them smiling and happy. Their hands are joined to form the shape of a heart, foul ball poised at its center. She watches him admire the image before hitting _Send_ and turning towards her for another kiss. They stay in the ballpark a while longer, just talking and laughing – together and complete in their love for each other.

It feels like home.


	17. Hold on to Me

We are the foreheads slowly touching  
and the shaking arms cradling  
and the quiet reach of a strong hand to  
brings lips closer and kisses deeper  
and whispers sweeter.  
We are the emotion  
that has never fit inside  
either of us and never will.  
– Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

On Monday, Lydia wakes to the pitter-patter of rainfall and the delightful sensation of Stiles's lips, which are pressing tender kisses to the exposed skin of her neck and back.

In sleep, they have merged into yet another idyllic embrace. His body is curled around hers; right arm bent over her side with his palm to her abdomen and his thumb stroking her sternum through the satin of her nightgown. His opposite arm is beneath her, stretched along the bottom edge of her pillow, where her hand clasps his elbow. She is completely enveloped in his perpetual warmth and comforting scent.

There is no better way to start a new day.

Lydia gratefully responds to his greeting with a contented sigh before repeatedly kissing his bicep, then she turns within the shelter of his arms and opens her eyes so she can see him. The room is dimmed by a diffused grey haze, but Stiles is bright, and alert, and smiling at her. His energy is contagious, and her body surges with excitement, eagerness to spend another day in his presence stirring her from the inside out.

"Good morning, love," she whispers.

"G'morning, angel," he replies in his velvety morning voice.

And her heart soars – so high that it can touch the clouds.

"How'd you sleep?" he asks.

 _"So_ well… Perfect actually. You?"

"Best night ever."

She laughs as she sneaks an arm between them and reaches up to caress his face. "You always say that."

"It's always the truth when I'm with you."

Her chest squeezes. It never ceases to amaze her, the depth of affection he can convey in just a few words; always a subliminal _I love you_ beckoning from within.

"Sti—les…you're spoiling me with your sweetness, and I really wanna kiss you right now."

His hands are at her back, palms swooping up and down her spine, practiced fingers leaving a fiery trail in their wake. She shudders with pleasure and sinks her manicured digits into his hair, now long enough to coil around her fingertips.

"What's stopping you?" he questions.

"Nothing," she beams.

Lydia encourages Stiles closer, feels the kiss of his breath even before their lips meet, and when they do…it's pure bliss. Soft but determined, his tongue teases her lower lip, then dips into her mouth to mingle with hers in a way that instantly makes her hunger for more. His arms surround her, hands cinching up her nightgown until it's bunched at her waist. The pressure that develops low in her belly is almost unbearable. She slings her leg over his hip, dragging her body close enough to feel him against her.

The rain taps heavily upon the windows, briskly ascending to a swifter pace that matches the urgent quality of their kisses. By the time they come up for air, Lydia is throbbing with desire, the ache to have Stiles inside of her spreading outwards in rolling undercurrents that infuse her with heat.

She can feel how much he wants her too; muscles taut, grip of his hands getting firmer, kisses lasting longer. She can even hear it when he says with suggestive inflection, "You know…it's supposed to rain for at least a couple of hours," before he pulls her on top of him.

The tension in her core is wound tight, her heart pounding with anticipation when she straddles his hips. "Is that so?"

He nods, grin breaking through as he bites his bottom lip. "Yeah…maybe even all morning."

"Well…I guess we had better stay here then," she answers with a smile.

So they do. They stay in bed and make love, secure in the knowledge that they have all the time in the world and that nothing can interrupt them. Passionate adoration guides each touch, fulfillment from those touches expressed in every moan, bodies tenaciously but lovingly rocking until they are both gasping in synchronized breaths, glistening with sweat, and quivering with ecstasy. Lydia leaves a trail of wet kisses all over Stiles's chest and abs while his hands follow the outlines of her curves with an attentive reverence that makes her shed tears. He eases her back down with delicate caresses and soft-spoken words. She tells him she loves him…again and again. He assures her that he knows, that he feels her love stronger than anything he has ever felt, that nothing compares to being with her. They fall asleep in each other's arms, and when they wake an hour later, the room is saturated with light and the skies have cleared to a brilliant shade of azure blue.

* * *

Lydia and Stiles spend the afternoon in Chinatown; city sidewalks washed clean by the morning's rain, shimmering droplets clinging to store windows and dripping off awnings, sun shining through the canopy of red and gold lanterns that are bobbing overhead. They have lunch at a small, family-owned restaurant on Grant Avenue. Seated beside each other in a circular booth, they share the best dim sum and lo mein either of them has ever had. Lydia watches Stiles handle chopsticks like it's second nature, smiling when she easily recalls the summer evening, between sophomore and junior year, when she taught him how to use them.

Two years later, she is still convinced that he mastered the technique much sooner than he let on. As soon as she mentions it to Stiles, he begins to chuckle, confessing that he intentionally exaggerated his struggle, just so she would keep touching him. She admits that she suspected all along, but since the contact between their hands felt so good, she pretended not to notice.

Their smiles broaden as they reminisce about that night – how they sat close beside each other on the couch in the Stilinski living room while he informed her about the different types of wolfsbane and its various side effects, how they squabbled over who was going to pay for dinner (she won), and how they put aside all thoughts of the supernatural when their meal arrived, so they could spend the rest of the time talking and laughing, like normal teenagers. At midnight, Stiles walked Lydia to her car. They hugged under a starry sky, both of them lingering considerably longer than usual. She remembers catching a glimpse of his face in the rear-view mirror as she was about to pull away from the curb. He was smiling…and when she checked her own reflection, so was she.

Before they depart, the server brings two fortune cookies to the table. Stiles offers one to Lydia first and takes the other for himself.

"Go ahead," he nudges her.

She snaps the cookie in half and withdraws the small slip of paper it conceals. As she reads its message, the corners of her mouth turn upward.

"What's it say?"

"It says…" Her voice unexpectedly falters; impact of the words resonating more profoundly than she was expecting. Laying her hand over Stiles's heart, Lydia focuses on his stable beats until she recovers. "It says: _Love is the greatest adventure,"_ she resumes, eyes blurring with a rebellious mist that quickly evaporates when Stiles covers her hand with his and leans in to kiss her forehead. She doesn't have to utter a single syllable of explanation. _He knows._

"It's okay, Lyds," he soothes, sliding his arm behind her back. "I've got you."

She inhales fully and nods into his shoulder. After a silent pause, she lifts her head and smiles at him. "What about yours?"

"Uh…" He cracks the other cookie between his thumb and index finger and removes the paper. "Mine says… _All you need is Lydia Martin."_

"It does _not_ ," she refutes with soft laughter.

"Sure it does," Stiles insists, gripping her a little tighter. "Well…I mean, it's close enough anyway. Look…" He holds the paper out so she can see the print as he reads, _"Everything you need is within your reach."_

If there is a response worthy of him, Lydia can't think clearly enough to come up with it. So instead, she kisses him – _hard_ – once…twice…three times for good measure, leaving the rosy impression of her lips on his cheek. Then she returns her head to his shoulder and breathes him in as he loops his other arm around her.

It's cozy where they are; crimson colored walls, dark wood, and ambient gold lighting, with the low register hum of conversation buzzing behind them. It's cozy, and they are happy to remain, for as long as they can – just the two of them, huddled together, no room for anything but love between them.

* * *

They are a few blocks from Washington Square, when Stiles notices Lydia eyeing a collection of accessories in the window of an antique store. He tugs on her hand and escorts her inside, then he reminds her to take her time and occupies himself by browsing the rest of the shop. After careful deliberation, she picks out a jeweled lotus flower pin for her mother and a pair of hand-painted butterfly hair combs for herself.

While the vendor polishes up the metalwork on each piece, Lydia finds Stiles near the back of the shop where he is digging through a collection of vintage records. The glow from a small hopper window backlights his silhouette, drawing him out of shadows cast by several towering shelves. The image is so magnificent that she halts in her tracks to admire him. Head ducked, he selects a vinyl, slides it over the spindle of a record player, switches on the turntable, and lines up the stylus. Before he even glances in Lydia's direction, his arm extends towards her, gesturing to call her closer. It doesn't surprise her. By now, she knows he can feel when she is near…but it makes her stomach swirl all the same; the instinctive awareness they have of each other filling her with affectionate pride.

A familiar tune is playing as she approaches him. Smiling when Lydia melts into his side, Stiles taps his finger on the slightly worn cover of a 1969 release of _Abbey Road._ He tells her that he has been trying to find one to replace the copy his dad used to have.

"What happened to it?"

"Me."

She laughs, looking up at him as she rests her chin on his chest. "Tell me."

His tone carries both nostalgic remorse and a hint of bashful humor when he explains, "I was…five years old, I think…and I may have had the not so bright idea to use it to make my dad a Father's Day gift."

Lydia watches his lips as they struggle to withhold a grin. "Go on…"

"Well…he would play it pretty often…like a few times a week. So…I guess I thought that…if I painted a picture for him, right on the record, then it would be better than using a piece of paper or something, 'cause this way, whenever he took the record out…he'd see the picture too."

A vivid image of five-year-old Stiles, up to his elbows in paint, happily creating his very own work of art, immediately pops into her mind. "Oh my God! Stiles…that is _so adorable!"_ she gushes, giving him a squeeze.

He leans into her, warmth of his cheek heating her temple. "I dunno if my dad thought so but…if he was upset at all, he never let it show. He just picked me up and thanked me…told me he loved it."

"I bet he still has it. Doesn't he?"

"Yeah, he does. I know he misses being able to listen to it though. Hell, I do… I cried for hours when I realized the record wasn't going to play anymore."

"Aww…babe…" Lydia sympathetically shakes her head, laughing quietly.

Stiles finally breaks into laughter as a new song begins to sound from the speakers. He turns to face her and pulls her closer, then guides her arms to his neck and gives her a soft kiss. The next thing she knows, they are swaying from side to side.

And there, in the cramped aisle of an antique store, with the first verse of _Something,_ by the Beatles, rising beside them, Stiles slow dances with her.

It's magic. She can feel his heart beating against hers, same as it did in the morning when they were in bed together. He holds on to her like he was always meant to; no space needlessly separating them, arms _so tight_ around her. Lydia closes her eyes, lets his body lead hers… _quick, quick, slow…quick, quick, slow_ … She loses herself in the perfect rhythm of their steps and in the timeless lyrics of a love song. She remembers the sincerity in his voice when he told her that she was _something_ – _something…incredible_ – on the steps of a dusty old school bus, parked in the middle of the desert, under the striking colors of a dawning sky. Her love for him grows.

By the time the last chord fades to a static hum, Stiles has his nose buried in her hair, and he is exhaling _l love yous_ into her ear. She knows she will never need anything other than this – his beating heart, his steady breaths, and the love between them brightening any small corner of the world with its light.

They reluctantly step back…after one more kiss. Stiles picks up the record and returns it to its sleeve, then takes Lydia's hand and tows her to the front of the shop. At the counter, he insists on paying for her hair combs as well. He has got his resolved face on, eyebrow arched and lips in a straight line, so she doesn't even attempt to argue. She thanks him with a hug and presses her smiling lips into the curve of his neck until his chest vibrates with silent laughter.

* * *

As they pass through Little Italy on their way to Pier 39, Lydia makes sure they stop for gelato because she knows Stiles has been wanting to try it as much as she has. He gets cherry almond and dark chocolate, and she tries caramel and chocolate espresso mousse. It's even better than they both imagined. Together they walk, linked hands and happy hearts, swapping cones halfway through, the same as they do at home when they have ice cream at the square in Andrews Hill.

"Lyds, we might have to move to San Francisco just for the gelato…better yet…maybe we'll move to Italy," he says with a wink.

"That works for me," she replies without delay, her mind promptly enchanted by the notion of them traveling, not just to Italy…but to all the countries of Europe. She can see it, pictures them in all the places they have talked about visiting together. She clasps his hand tighter and smiles because _she knows_ – "I'd go anywhere with you," she finishes.

Stiles comes to an abrupt stop. The expression on his face is priceless; brows raised, eyes glossy, jaw slightly quirked, lips parted but uplifting on one side. "I'm gonna hold you to that," he informs her as he gives her a chocolate-flavored kiss.

Smacking her lips together, she retorts, "Good." Then she steals one more delicious kiss, and they continue their walk.

When they arrive at the pier, they take a much-needed break, seating themselves on an empty bench in view of a colony of sea lions that are basking on the wharf. The air is comfortably warm, choppy waters lapping against weathered wood docks and sparkling with sunlight. Stiles drapes Lydia's legs across his lap, his hands innocently toying with the hem of her lavender wrap-dress as they talk. She watches the breeze tousle the strands of his hair, gazes at the gold in his eyes, follows the gentle slope of his nose and the movement of his lips, then she gets him to blush when she tells him that he is _so beautiful._

* * *

The end of their day is spent on the east beach at Crissy Field, both of them barefoot as they stroll the camber of its shore. Waves of people pass by, but Lydia and Stiles take in the sight of the Golden Gate Bridge and of sailboats drifting in the bay as if they are the only two people around. All the while, the colors of the seascape progressively morph before their eyes. At the peak of sunset, the sky looks like it's on fire; intense orange flames defining the underside of fluffy clouds and the great dome above softening to pale blue.

They hedge nearer the waterline, their toes sinking into dampened sand and a lazy current swishing temperate ripples across their ankles. There is a serene kind of energy ebbing and flowing with the rising tide. It matches their slow and harmonious stride. It mirrors the pace of their love – patient, strong, constant.

It's perfect. Lydia is with the person she loves most in the world, and they have spent every possible minute of a carefree day _together._ She couldn't ask for anything more.

It's perfect…yet somehow, Stiles knows how to take perfect to a whole other level. He briefly stills, then turns to stand before her. His smile is breathtaking, and his eyes are reflecting every amazing thing inside of him. He cradles one side of her face, inching nearer as he strokes the length of her hair with his other hand. He tells her she is making him happier than he ever dreamed he could be, and then…he kisses her in a way that gives new meaning to the word passion.

In that moment, Lydia doesn't think at all. She feels. She grabs on to his shoulders like a lifeline and kisses him back; everything inside encouraging her to dive _deeper and deeper_ into the life she is sharing with Stiles.

They kiss, winds whipping through the skirt of her dress and the back of his grey tee shirt. They kiss, lights going down around them as evening transitions to dusk. They kiss, hearts wildly flourishing with emotion that has never fit inside and most likely never will.

There is no better way to end a day.

* * *

On Tuesday, Lydia opens her eyes in pitch darkness. She glances at the digital clock on the nightstand, which indicates that it is just after three a.m. – far too early to be awake but she knows she won't easily fall asleep again. How could she? It's June 24th.

 _June 24th._

One month since Stiles came back to her. One month since he healed her heartache with _the look_ in his eyes, thawed the chill from her bones with the warmth of his body, and dispelled the longing in her soul with his kiss. One month, and ever since, they have been exactly where they are supposed to be. _Together._

She focuses on the precious rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand, and she remembers the moment when she saw him – a glowing beacon in the dead of night. A night she will _never_ forget…

* * *

Lydia stood breathless before Stiles. His eyes were already locked on her, his expression one she had seen many times – not surprised, _relieved._ She remembers the simple words they exchanged; a spoken form of shorthand that had been perfected long before. She remembers the amber in his irises, radiating pure love. She remembers the openness of his arms, ready and willing to accept her, just as she is. She remembers her heart guiding her forward, needle of a love-struck internal compass pointing with absolute precision towards her magnetic north – _Stiles._ And then…

She remembers his arms encircling her and the committed motion of his lips – equaling hers, passion for passion, as they sought to reclaim the physical connection that they had been deprived of for three long months. They were two halves of one whole, torn apart and tattered at the core…but seamlessly fusing together again.

They kissed. Their lips pressing with purpose and fitting in ways she had never even imagined were possible. They kept kissing. Her hands caressing his face, and his clutching her back…and her waist…and her hips. Her fingers exploring the angles of his cheekbones and the curves of his ears, and his knotting into the fabric of her black floral romper, pulling her closer…and closer. Her thumbs skimming his eyelashes, and his massaging circles into the sides of her ribs. Her nose against the side of his, and his smashing into her cheek. They kissed, and Lydia let herself dive right into the bottomless pool of affection between them, knowing full well that Stiles would be there to help her stay afloat.

When they parted, they looked upon each other with wondrous stares and watery eyes. Stiles was with her, alive and safe. She knew he was real. She felt it all along – her love for him more present, more reassuring than anything she had ever known. Stiles was with her, and she would no longer have to escape to her dreams to be with him. She could see him in front of her, eyebrows cinched in understanding of her pain, one side of his mouth granting her the magnificent revelation of a smile. She could hear him, panting bursts of emotion that echoed through silence. In those blissful moments, his exhales became the oxygen that expanded her lungs, revived her heart, and lifted her spirits. She could breathe in his scent – pine needles, and laundry detergent, and Stiles – same as it always was. She could taste the mint that he had nicked from the pocket of her dress, only a short time before he disappeared. She could feel him, hold on to him, and relish in the way his body reacted to her touches; his chest shuddering and his pulse erratically jumping beneath her ring finger. In those long-awaited moments, there was inimitable heat between them, powerful enough to convert a cold metallic cavern into paradise found.

They hugged. A hug to be the envy of all that preceded it. Stiles nuzzled along the side of her face, and Lydia nestled into the space between his neck and shoulder – that perfect nook that had been carved out just for her. She remembers his strong arms enveloping her and her fists secured to his shoulder blades, brushed cotton flannel cushioning her palms and knuckles. She remembers the way their whole bodies were leaning in, searching for and finding respite in the divine physical representation of their love.

They hugged, and their bodies swayed in unison – the first dance of the rest of their lives. _Together._

Everything that happened from the time they walked out of the locker room, to the moment they left the high school is a blur. But of one thing, Lydia is sure – that night, she and Stiles never considered separating from each other. Not for a single minute. They approached each step, hand in hand; digits linked in an unspoken promise to _never let go._

They got into the Jeep _together,_ entered the Stilinski house _together_ …and lastly, they crossed the threshold of his bedroom _together._ His room, where everything was back in its rightful place, like he was never gone.

In the shelter of that moonlit haven, in the place they both called _home,_ Lydia and Stiles held on to each other; past, present, and future colliding in another all-consuming embrace, heartbeats speaking volumes that tongues were too tied to articulate.

That night, they stripped down to their underwear, both of them wide-eyed and smiling with the entranced astonishment of a first time, previously only imagined, but coming to light – at last. They shared gentle touches and tender kisses, then slipped into a bare minimum of clothing; her in a faded orange and grey baseball tee, him in navy-blue pajama pants.

Tired as he was, Stiles still didn't hesitate to scoop Lydia into his arms. She clung to his shoulders and wrapped her legs around him, worshiping every blessed mole on his jaw and neck with her lips as he carried her to bed. Bodies weary, they quickly sank below the covers. Her hands were where he placed them, on his chest, and his were on her hips, silently seeking permission to roam beneath the shirt she wore – _his shirt –_ the one she chose without even looking, just reached into the drawer when he opened it and took the first to make contact with her fingertips; it didn't matter which, as long as it was _his._ Lydia encouraged Stiles with an openhearted smile. He responded, carefully hiking the fabric up to her waist. A draft of cool air ghosted over her skin, and she held her breath. When his warm palm and digits connected with the small of her back, she exhaled a shiver, wondering how she ever survived a day without his hands on her.

Her eyes remained fixed on him. On the face of the boy she loved. The boy who awakened her from the bleak slumber of apathy with the devotion of a true-blue heart and the charm of a crooked grin. _Stiles._

He was beautiful. Not just beautiful – the _most beautiful_ soul she had ever seen, and she was rendered speechless by the sight of him.

In truth, Stiles was beautiful in any light, but there was something about the way he looked just then which transcended comprehension. It was as if he had swallowed the moon and all the stars in the galaxy. They were within him, impossible to disguise or confine – a glowing aura, seeping out of every cell in his body and illuminating a clear path to the future. The future that Lydia had been dreaming of sharing with him. One filled with hope, and happiness, and so much love.

She remembers the way he was gazing back at her, barely blinking, as if he were afraid that he would miss something. Half of his lower lip was sucked into his mouth, so she moved her hand to his face, thumb tugging on his lip until he released it, along with her name.

"Lydia… Lyds…" he gasped, unable to catch his breath.

Slowly leaning closer until their foreheads were touching, she consoled him in the softest of tones, "Shh…shh…Stiles, it's okay. It's okay… Just hold on to me."

Hands traveling up her vertebrae, he pressed into her, and then he spoke words that have been branded into her memory ever since…

"I missed everyone – so much. I missed them…but I _ached_ for _you,_ Lydia. I _ached_ for you every second."

Arms shaking, she allowed just enough distance so they could make eye contact. "I ached for you too, but everything will be better – _we'll_ be better…now that we're together again. We've always been better together, Stiles."

Then the tears came. Free-flowing rivulets that dampened their lashes and cheeks, leaving a salty tang between lips that were trading desperate kisses and repetitively whispering nonsensical words. Words which, to Lydia's ears, sounded like poetry in a language only she and Stiles could understand.

When calm settled over them, he pushed off from the bed with his elbow, upper half of his body hovering above her as he lifted his gentle hand to her face. Gingerly, he dabbed at the remnants of her tears with his fingertips. He tinted her cheeks to novel shades of pink by tracing her freckles and dimples with his index, then he blended each hue into a watercolor masterpiece, one which she could perceive even without the benefit of her eyesight.

His tenor was raspy and thick with love and optimism when he said, "This is it… Isn't it? We've got it right this time. It's you and me now."

Her reply came swiftly, affirmation ready and willing to leap from her tongue. "Yes, Stiles, yes," she nodded fervently. Bringing Stiles closer, she crushed her lips into his, letting them linger as she continued, "It's you and me. I promise…I'm with you. For as long as you want…I'm with you."

"Lyds, I want it all with you. I want Us – forever."

"Forever," she repeated, her voice the sweetest of whispers.

Stiles sighed a vibrant smile that reached his eyes and inspired a warm fluttering sensation in her stomach, then they sealed their promise with another kiss. He slipped his arms underneath her and rolled them onto their sides. As he had done many times in past months, Stiles emblazoned the mark of his love on her forehead before relaxing onto the pillow they shared. She remembers the way he pulled her close, not an inch of wasteful space between them, their bodies quickly reshaping around each other, natural and easy – like always.

Lydia was beyond happy. She was with the person she loved most in the world, and she could see that he was happy too. Despite what seemed like impossible circumstances, they had found their way back to each other; emotional tether stretched to the limit – not severed, only strengthened. Nothing could come between them. She knew it. She felt it with every fiber of her rapidly beating heart, and she couldn't ask for anything more.

They stayed awake; both of them blanketed in comfortable silence, contented stares set exclusively on each other as they made up for lost time with tender caresses and affectionate smiles. She remembers how the darkened room gradually altered its shade of blue, from midnight…to cobalt…to sky, as morning rays ambled through the windows to join them in vigilant observation.

By the time they drifted to sleep, Lydia and Stiles were basking in the golden-orange light of a new day. One that would begin and end in the only way that made sense – with the two of them. _Together._

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia's eyes are stinging with tears when Stiles speaks to her. "Lyds… You awake?"

It doesn't surprise her. Somehow, she knew he wouldn't be asleep either. "Yeah," she answers, as a large droplet trickles from the corner of her eye. Rather than wiping it away, she lets it fall, waits to hear it land on his skin before she asks, "How long have you been up?"

"A while. You?"

"Same." She smooths her hand along his torso. "Are you okay?"

His chest swells with a breath. "Yeah, I've just been thinking…"

"Me too."

"I bet I know what you were thinking about," he asserts, massaging her upper arm.

"I bet you were thinking about the same thing."

The bed jostles with the hushed billow of their laughter. The beautiful sound they create whirls through the atmosphere with its downy quality. It tickles her skin with the memory of Stiles handing her a raven feather and consoling her with a hug that was laced with _hope,_ on a hot September day, when she had been shaken by fear.

She involuntarily trembles; she is laughing, but she is crying too. A few more tears skip past her lashes and puddle in the center of his chest. He relocates his hand from her upper arm to the side of her face, and she steadies.

"Talk to me," he says.

"I'm okay," she smiles, leaning into his hand so he can feel the upwards turn of her mouth. "It's just…that night means so much to me. Whenever I think about it…I can't help feeling everything all over again."

He is quiet for a minute, fingers surveying her eyebrow and her cheek, then returning to her lips. When Stiles is satisfied that her smile is genuine, his hand slides to the nape of her neck and he draws her into a kiss. He is hesitant at first, but instantly deepens the contact when she tugs on his shoulder to coax him above her.

"I know, Lydia, I know," he whispers in between a series of gentle pecks. "I feel it too. Everything. Like it was yesterday."

She senses the emotion brimming within him. It spills over; some of his tears splashing onto her cheekbones and gliding back into her hair. Finding his hand in the darkness, she places it over her heart. "When we were apart, I had this awful emptiness inside, but as soon as I saw you…it went away."

She winds her arms around him, and he bows his head, lips grazing her neck when he adds, "It did for me too. I'm so happy we're together…that we're so close."

"Can we always be like this? Like we are right now?" she asks, stroking the length of his spine.

"Always. If anything…we'll only ever be closer."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he assures her, mouth now poised above hers.

All Lydia has to do to reach his lips is to pucker hers, so she does. She can feel his smile immediately take shape, so she kisses him…over and over…until the last of their tears have vanished, and they are both laughing. Then, exactly as she hopes for, Stiles brings her into his perfect embrace, the same as he did one month earlier.

In those early morning hours, Lydia tells Stiles that she loves him with her words and her body. He does the same for her; heavenly weight of him above her, solid warmth of him inside of her, touch of his skin sparking fires across every inch of her figure, and the sweetness of his kisses silently communicating how much he adores her.

They hold on to each other in the afterglow of euphoric exhaustion and allow themselves the luxury of drifting to sleep before sunrise; safe and secure in the knowledge that nothing can keep them apart, that all of the love between them will always cast any shadow aside and replace it with pure light.

There is no better way to start a new day.


	18. The Long Way Home

So let's take the long way home  
Every moment I spend with you  
Let's make it slow, so slow  
We'll mark the moments as they go.  
– The Long Way Home by Catherine MacLellan

I will love you… In the long drives down old roads.  
– Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

Later that Tuesday morning, Lydia steps out of the en suite bathroom, her freshly washed and styled strawberry-blonde hair flowing behind her in loose spirals. She stands next to the bed that she has happily shared with Stiles for the past three nights. There is a melancholy heaviness in her chest but also a sense of fulfillment, her heart so crammed full of love that she thinks it might burst.

While Lydia unwraps the towel she is wearing and slips into a nude satin bra and floral printed panties, her eyes are aimed at Stiles. He is standing in the turret nook, downing the last of his orange juice as he looks out the window. The sky is cool blue beyond him, scattered with wispy puffs of clouds that gradually reveal themselves from behind wind-blown curtains. Bright morning sunbeams are bouncing off his skin, defining the broad width of his shoulders and the sculpted lines of his back, highlighting every wave in his hair and the elegant movement of his fingers as he taps them against the window frame.

Pursing her lips, she relishes in the rushing pulse of her heart and the swirling sensation that rises in her stomach, then she breathes a shudder through the sinking feeling that invades soon after. The one that is making her painfully aware that their vacation is coming to an end. The one that makes her miss Stiles…when he is barely ten feet away.

Praying that he doesn't move, she takes her phone from the nightstand and snaps a photo of him because _god,_ she just needs to capture this moment – Stiles surrounded by light, comfortable and calm, and completely himself. There isn't anything more beautiful.

After she quickly dresses in a pair of dark blue shorts and her favorite white lace top, Lydia follows the tugging behind her ribs until she is standing beside Stiles. She winds her arms around his torso, and he acknowledges her with a soft smile, promptly setting his empty glass on their breakfast tray so he can embrace her with both arms.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, as his lips find their way to her forehead.

"Us."

 _Us._ Two letters. One perfect word. She and Stiles are an _Us_. As far as Lydia is concerned, they have been for quite some time. Even before they were together, she thought of them as such, but it still sends her heart racing whenever she hears him say it.

"Anything in particular?" she questions, inching close enough to feel the fabric of his jeans against her knees.

"How amazing it's been to wake up together every day...especially today. I love seeing you first thing in the morning, and I... I can't imagine not being with you right now."

"I've been thinking that too."

He nods. "What else?"

"That I want more of this. That I'm not ready to go yet. That…"

He waits. The look in his eyes tells her that not only does he already know what she is about to say – he feels the same. She doesn't have to worry about sounding crazy. She doesn't have to feel silly for admitting _how much_ she wants to be with him. She can just speak from her heart. Stiles makes it so easy for her to do that because he always understands.

So she continues, "That even though you're standing right in front of me, I already miss you, and I don't want to let go of you – not even for one minute."

Stiles exhales an empathetic sigh and hugs her tighter. Lydia leans her cheek on his chest, his skin warm and inviting, his arms strong and reassuring.

"Couldn't have said that better myself," he says quietly before skimming the side of her face with a line of tiny kisses. "We've been apart for too long…too many times."

"We have, and I hate it."

"Me too. But that's all over now. It will be okay. We're together, and we still have today. Right?"

"Right. Of course…" she begins, trying her best to maintain her composure, "and…it's not like we won't see each other once we get home. It just won't—" Her voice splits; nasty little shards of longing stuck in her throat, cutting her statement in half.

"It just won't be…exactly like it is here," he finishes, tone equally emotional.

She shakes her head and utters a simple, "No." She doesn't trust her vocal cords to relay more than a syllable without failing her again.

Stiles swallows with a detectable degree of difficulty but he sets his lips in a line, smooths her hair back, and takes her face in his hands. "Hey, just think… We really only have to get through a couple of weeks 'cause your mom's got that trip planned at the end of July…and I basically plan on moving into that big old house of yours while she's away."

Lydia knows that he is struggling too, so she smiles in an attempt to will away her tears; hopefully his too. He returns her gesture with an upside-down version of it, then ducks in for a kiss – the kind that makes her weak in the knees. Her palms travel upwards, and she curls her fingers around his shoulders, pulling him closer and deepening the contact between them. He glides one of his hands to her spine, like he knows she needs his support, and she moans in appreciation against his lips.

His kisses are intense…one, after another, after another. She is pretty sure they have healing powers because the ache in her stomach is vanishing and the butterflies are swiftly migrating back.

Reluctantly they part, sweet tang of oranges and Stiles crystallizing on her tongue. When Lydia slowly opens her eyes, she is immediately drawn into the depth of his. They are dark and focused, showering her with an outpouring of love – affection so tangible that she can feel her body absorbing it.

He keeps one hand on her face, thumb gingerly grazing her cheekbone and then her lips. "Lyds…these past few days have been the best of my life, and it's getting harder and harder for me to say things like that because…every day with you is the _best_ day of my life."

Another stream of emotion surges through her veins and channels its energy behind her eyes. She gazes at him, lids blinking furiously fast, working to disperse her tears before they spill over. "Stiles… I already cried once today. Don't make me do it again."

Eyebrows cinched with compassion he asks, "Is it okay if I do?"

"No…that's worse," she sniffles. "If you cry, I'll definitely cry."

He tries to lighten the mood, puppy eyes and playful pout appearing when he pleads, "Come on…just a little?"

"No," she refuses, mimicking his pout, then levitating to the tips of her toes and imprinting a delicate kiss on his cupid's bow.

"What if I just sort of silently whimper?" he suggests, bringing her as close as possible; arms crossing behind her back, fingers wandering under her top to stroke the sensitive skin above the waistband of her shorts.

It tickles.

"Stiles…" she chortles, wriggling in delighted response to his touch.

He sucks in his lower lip, but she can tell that he is suppressing a chuckle; proud that he is able to cheer her up so effortlessly.

"Okay, no crying… Just kissing. Lots of kissing," he amends. Then, he lets his eyelids fall shut and presses his lips to hers...again and again, until she is breathless but still craving more.

When they part, the signature glow has already returned to the rich brown shade of his irises – dazzling as ever. The radiance from within is almost blinding, but Lydia can't stop staring at it, _at him._ She can't get enough of him. He is so good to her, and she loves him so much.

He is staring at her too; rambling awareness dancing from her eyes…to her smile…to her neck…then back to her eyes, like he is trying to take it all in and he doesn't know where to look first. "We've got it _so bad_ for each other… Huh?" he remarks, as he begins to sway their bodies.

"I guess it can't be helped," she shrugs. "We're _so good_ together."

"We really are, Lydia. _So good._ Scratch that – _the best."_

He dips her, both of them bubbling with laughter as he kisses her throat.

And just like that, all the pain is gone.

Once Stiles pulls her upright, she drops her head to his shoulder and hugs him using every ounce of her strength. She wants him to feel her love right down to his bones. The contented way he hums into her ear lets her know that he does.

They remain as they are, as close as two people can be; lungs and hearts swelling in unison, love keeping them afloat. The sound of distant waves influences the rhythm of their caresses, and a warm summer breeze carries the scent of wildflowers and cedar into the space.

Following a long silence, Stiles points out, "We've got time until we can get the Jeep, so... How about we sit here and enjoy this view?"

"I'd like that," she agrees, smoothing her hands across the faded scars on his chest. "Do you wanna read for a bit?"

"Yeah, sure." He ticks his head towards the bookshelf. "It's your turn to pick."

Stiles makes himself comfortable on the loveseat, while Lydia makes her selection. Then, she curls up beside him with her legs folded underneath her. She nestles her head on his shoulder and smiles when he instinctively puts his arm around her, his hand coddling the left side of her head; loving and protective, mindful of her vulnerability but not intimidated by it.

They spend nearly an hour reading poetry to each other, occasionally taking in the idyllic image of the bay that lies ahead of them, though mostly admiring each other; eyes still a little watery, but smiles bright, hearts full, minds at peace.

* * *

When it is time for them to leave, they take one last look at their room from the hallway, fingers woven as tightly as the seams on the baseball Stiles caught two days earlier, hearts linked by an invisible but unbreakable tether called Love.

"Maybe we'll come back someday," Lydia says as a single droplet cascades over her lashes. "What do you think?"

"I'd love that, angel," he replies without a moment's hesitation. Then he tucks her hair behind her ear and erases her tear with his lips; one of his own splashing onto her collarbone, when he moves from her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

The rest of their tears evaporate before they fall. They float through the air and drift beyond the open windows.

* * *

They are huddled in the back seat of a taxi, sights of the city rolling by at a lazy pace. Stiles is unusually quiet, and Lydia senses the nervous excitement simmering inside of him. He keeps adjusting his grasp on her hand and gnawing on his lower lip. His breaths are shallow and irregular.

"Love," she calls him, running her free hand through his hair and letting it come to rest at the side of his neck.

He makes eye contact with her, and everything about his countenance changes; eyebrows slackening, color restored to his bottom lip as it pops out of his mouth, shoulders relaxing.

"Everything is going to be fine. I promise. Just breathe," she coaches.

He lifts their joined hands and kisses the back of her palm twice; the first is quick, but on the second, he closes his eyes and lets his lips linger on her skin. She feels him take a deliberate inhale, then release it in a steady exhale, and it pulls on her heartstrings. Being able to put Stiles at ease with a few words and a touch makes Lydia so unbelievably happy, she thinks she might cry. But she doesn't. She swore to herself she isn't doing that anymore today.

"You alright?" she asks, devoting her full attention to the boy she loves.

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks, Lyds." He gives her a kiss; soft and sweet. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably implode," she teases. Clutching his hand tighter, she continues, "Let's never find out. Okay?"

"You got it," he grins.

For the remainder of the ride, Stiles is his normal chatty self. She asks him to tell her about the first time he drove the Jeep. He recounts the story in uninhibited detail – how he wrecked his neighbors' trash can because he accidentally set the gear in reverse, how he caused his poor father to break out into a cold sweat by stalling twice before they got to the end of the block, and how Scott, who had gone along for the ride, took advantage of his _third_ stall to make a not-so-stealthy departure. Lydia laughs so much that her sides hurt, and even the driver can't help but join in. She tells them they've been the most pleasant fares she has had in ages and that seeing two people as in love as they are has given her hope.

They are at a traffic stop in Hayes Valley when Lydia gives in to her tears. She takes one look at Stiles, eyes glistening with tears of his own, and she can't help it. She dives into the crook of his neck, silent sobs dampening his collar. He doesn't say anything; just holds her exactly how she wants to be held, communicating _I love yous_ through the gentle touch of his hands and the pressure of his lips on her cheek. She takes her own advice and reminds herself to breathe, his comforting scent pervading her lungs and bringing back her smile. The next time she glances at Stiles, he is smiling too.

* * *

When they arrive at the auto shop, Nicholas and Gemma lead them to the rear parking lot where the Jeep is ready, waiting, and spotlessly clean. Gemma pops the hood to show them the fully restored engine and explains some details about general maintenance for the new parts. Lydia keeps her stare locked on Stiles. His grip on her hand is strong and his hold on her heart even stronger. The expression on his face when Nicholas hands him the key is priceless – like he was just reunited with a member of his family. Stiles lets go of Lydia's hand long enough to secure the key to its ring – the one with the green metal tab at the center, the one that belonged to Claudia.

Lydia catches the fond smile that traverses his lips as he intertwines fingers with hers, keys pressed between their palms like a promise. She gets the distinct impression that he is telling her it's _their Jeep_ now. The wink Stiles gives her when she clasps her free hand to his wrist makes her certain of it. She never imagined a 1980 CJ5 could come to mean so much to her. But it does, and it always will.

Stiles thanks Nicholas and Gemma repeatedly before taking Lydia's overnight bag from her shoulder and depositing it in the Jeep along with his. They go inside the shop to sign the release papers and make the final payment.

Beyond that point, it's just the two of them – Lydia and Stiles. His hand finds its place between her shoulder blades, and together, they walk to the Jeep.

It's familiar when they reach for the passenger's side door at the same time, even more so when she sees her hand disappear beneath his. She feels his touch, watches his palm and digits curl around hers…and she remembers.

 _She remembers the night she asked Stiles to take the long way home..._

* * *

It was shortly after nine o'clock that evening. Lydia remembers walking through the hallway of the Beacon County Sheriff's Station, heels of her boots clicking a little too loudly against the vinyl flooring. Stiles was just ahead of her, roughly running a hand through his hair, then rubbing the nape of his neck.

Minutes earlier, they had been in his father's office; Scott and Kira sandwiched between them, Noah seated at his desk. Lydia remembers the awkward tension in the room, dense and onerous. It influenced her posture; her arms inflexibly straight, hands braced on her knees, muscles of her legs uncomfortably rigid. Dialogue was being paddled back and forth, and she was more or less on the outside of it. She couldn't wait for it to end, so she could go home.

There was some relief, however. A voice that stood apart from the others. _Stiles's voice._ She remembers his sarcastic tone as he answered Agent McCall's questions. She remembers having to bite her tongue to keep from laughing each time he responded in terms that were intentionally evasive. She specifically recalls the words: _Yeah, what can I say? I take after my pops. He's in law enforcement._ When she risked a glance at Stiles, she was met with a flash of gold; his eyes already on her. He tossed her a wry smirk and quickly looked away…and the buzzing noise, which had been reverberating in her eardrums for most of the day, finally subsided.

In the corridor, she remembers Stiles looking over his shoulder, then reaching out for her and slowing his steps until they were side by side. When his hand connected with the midpoint of her back, her entire body relaxed.

As they approached the front desk, a timid voice called out from behind them.

"Lydia… Stiles… _Wait."_

They turned in unison.

Kira was hastening her stride to catch up with them. With eyes lowered towards the floor and her head shaking from side to side, she began, "I just…" then she paused, closed her eyes, took a breath, and straightened her shoulders. Seconds later, a pair of pretty, dark brown orbs revealed themselves. Her volume was hushed, but unmistakably sincere when she said, "I wanted to thank you…both of you. No matter how it happened…however you found me… I'm so… _so_ …grateful that you did."

Before Lydia or Stiles could speak, Kira took a single step in reverse, then lunged forward, throwing her arms around them.

Lydia was taken aback, and she tensed; this girl, whom she barely knew, embracing her with such unexpected zeal. But then, she felt Kira's petite frame trembling against her own, and she softened. Lydia understood, all too well, the kind of trauma Kira had experienced that night; the powerless feeling that seizes control when your hands are bound and your life is being threatened, the terror of coming _so close_ to Death that you can see its shadow, the fear that no one will come for you…and the overwhelming relief when you realize that someone _is_ fighting for you, that they were beside you – all along. Less than two months earlier, Lydia had almost died at Jennifer Blake's hand…but she had someone to cling to in the aftermath, someone who cared, someone who held her until the shaking stopped. She reflexively looked at Stiles. His brows were raised in surprise, but he was smiling, and she smiled too.

Together, they encircled Kira, bringing her into the first of many group hugs they would share. Lydia remembers Stiles shifting closer, his left arm tightening around her and his opposite stretching behind Kira to grasp her elbow, heat of his palm penetrating through the knit of her sweater. She let her head rest on his collarbone, then grabbed the back of his tee shirt with one hand and smoothed Kira's silky hair with the other. The three of them stood like that for an extended moment, then slowly let go.

Lydia took a tissue from the box on the front desk and passed it to Kira. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah…" she answered, carefully blotting her eyes. "At least I will be…thanks to the two of you and Scott."

Stiles gave Kira's arm a pat. "Do you need a ride home?"

"I…um… I'm supposed to sign my statement before I can go," she explained with a nervous smile.

Lydia nudged Stiles with an inquisitive look, and he nodded in silent agreement. "We can wait for you," she offered.

"No, that's okay. One of the deputies is going to drive me. Thanks though…for everything."

Kira was about to step away, but Lydia gently caught her by the wrist.

"Hang on a sec…" she told her as she scanned the nearby desk for a blank piece of paper and a pen. After neatly writing her mobile number in blue ink, she handed the paper to Kira. "I know you don't have your phone back yet, but if you need to talk to someone… I… I've been through something similar."

"You have?"

"Yeah…more than once," she disclosed, quirking her mouth into a pout.

"Oh…" Kira gasped, eyes widening.

"Great town we've got… Huh?" Stiles chimed in with a crooked grin.

"It's different…that's for sure. Not all bad though. There's some really amazing people here."

"Can't argue with that," he conceded.

Lydia remembers the sudden fluttering in her stomach when Stiles flicked his fingers along the inside of her palm as he spoke. Her hand automatically opened for him, eager for the contact. He laced their digits together and gave her hand a squeeze, corner of his mouth instantly twitching higher.

She remembers Kira's gaze shifting to their joined hands and the subtle quality of her smile…like she had just become privy to a secret. Normally, it would have vexed Lydia to be so exposed in front of someone new, but this time, it didn't bother her. Her intuition urged her to trust Kira, so she smiled through pursed lips and stroked the inside of Stiles's wrist with her thumb.

Kira's tone was friendly and hopeful, when she resumed, "I guess…I'll see you guys at school tomorrow?"

"Sure," Lydia and Stiles replied together.

"Get home safe," she told them before rotating on the soles of her sneakers.

They watched her follow Deputy Haigh to the squad room. Then, Stiles pushed out a sigh and tugged on Lydia's hand, guiding her to the exit.

Outside, the evening air was cool. The blackout had shrouded the town in darkness, save for a few random spots, such as the sheriff's station, where generators were fueling dim incandescent lights, like the one above their heads. The quiet allowed Lydia to begin processing the events of an exceptionally long day. She felt Stiles, still holding her hand. Hours earlier, she had been in his room, lying on his bed, unsure of herself and burdened with guilt for getting him in trouble.

She grimaced. It turned out she was right about Barrow being at the school, but that didn't make her feel any better. It didn't change the fact that Stiles was saddled with a week's worth of detention – because he was trying to keep everyone safe, because he listened to her and trusted her instincts. When it looked like she had been wrong, he wasn't even the slightest bit annoyed. Instead, he was patient, tender, sweet.

 _It's okay though_ , he had said. _We were onto something._

She doubted whether she deserved the chance to be with someone so good, but _everything_ about Stiles made her want to try. Her eyes were drawn to him. Head lifted to the sky; he was gazing at the stars with a pensive expression. His grip on her hand had tightened considerably, but she didn't mind. It made her more aware of him and of how profoundly linked they were. As clearly as if Stiles were speaking to her, she heard his voice again.

 _Don't start doubting yourself now._

Those weren't just words. He really believed in her. No one had ever believed in her the way Stiles did.

Lydia startled when the door reopened behind them and Scott appeared with slumped shoulders and a weary demeanor. Stiles must have felt her body jolt because he pulled her a tad closer, then released her hand and set his palm on her back.

"I see it went well with your dad," he remarked as the door closed with a thump. "He give you the third degree?"

Eyes scanning the space, Scott frowned. "Not exactly, but obviously, he knows we didn't tell him the whole story."

"There's something else… Isn't there?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah. He's worried about who might have been controlling Barrow, and honestly…so am I."

Lydia remembers drifting back into thought as the boys continued to discuss the situation _._ It might not have been an appropriate time, but she couldn't stop thinking of Stiles; her mind replaying those moments they shared in his room, when only a few inches of space were between them and he was erasing her pain with the look in his eyes. He had been supportive and encouraging, like always. With soulful brown eyes and an attentive regard for her feelings, he articulated words that resonated with far more significance than their literal sense.

 _And look, if you wanted to…I'd go back to that school right now and search all night just to prove it,_ he assured her.

But what she heard was: _I'd do anything for you._

She wondered if he knew that she would do the same _for him._

Lydia remembers making the decision to talk to Coach Finstock in the morning. She would tell him that pulling the fire alarm had been her idea. He would probably assume she was lying, but no matter, she was going to sit through every one of those detentions _with Stiles._

She remembers thinking that he would be annoyed when he found out, that he would insist she didn't have to do such a thing for him. He would just have to get over it though. She knew he would...once he figured out how important it was to her that they face the consequences _togethe_ r – the same way they had been approaching most things those days. In the scheme of things, detention didn't even seem like a punishment. Not when it meant spending every afternoon, for the rest of the week, with the boy she cared about most in the world.

The next thing Lydia remembers is the rumble of Scott's dirt bike as he kick-started the engine. She was a little dazed, but she responded to his good night with a small smile. Stiles hadn't let go of her, his hand idly massaging the space between her shoulder blades. He had never done that before, but somehow it seemed like he always had. She remembers how she reacted on the inside, how his touch made her stomach clench and relax…clench and relax, budding with a gathering friction that incited a chain reaction of tremors all over her body. The nagging voice inside that usually pestered her to step away, the one that reminded her that she was getting too close and too comfortable, was being drowned out by the sound of her heart clamoring in her chest. She remembers thinking that something had shifted between Stiles and herself that night. Something that she didn't want to lose or deny, so she stayed exactly where she was. Together, they watched Scott ride down the street until the taillights of his bike disappeared into the night.

"Come on… We should get going," Stiles eventually said, leading her the last several steps towards the Jeep.

Lydia remembers reaching for the handle of the passenger's side door. Cold metal connected with her fingertips but then…there was warmth – her hand disappearing beneath the touch of a familiar palm and digits as Stiles curled his hand around hers.

She looked up and saw their reflection in the window; just the two of them with soft amber light glowing behind them. It was beautiful. Her lips were parted, and her chest was heaving with every arduous inhale. Stiles was _close_ – close enough that she could feel the faint breeze of his exhales sweeping past her temple. He had his eyes fixed on her, and his brows were pinched with concern.

"Lyds, you haven't said a thing since we were with Kira. Are you okay? I mean… I know you must be tired, and it's getting late but…"

That was when it finally sank in – for once, she hadn't been too late, waking from a fugue state only to find a body. For the first time, she had focused her banshee abilities and helped _save a life._ Kira's life.

She attempted to swallow the amalgam of emotion that was rapidly compiling at the back of her throat, but it wouldn't budge. She turned to Stiles with dewy eyes, surprising herself when she blurted out, "I didn't find a body."

His face flooded with relief. "No," he shook his head while repeating, "no, you didn't find a body."

She had the impression of becoming lighter and lighter; months of burdensome heaviness, of confusion, disappointment, and frustration over not being able to figure it out – all of it beginning to lift. She had tapped into a part of herself that she couldn't explain or control. It was liberating and also...terrifying.

For a split second, Lydia remembers feeling so weightless that she feared she might float away, that she would be lost in the night sky, condemned to wander the farthest latitudes of the atmosphere for all eternity.

But then, she remembered that she was _with Stiles._ The bond she shared with him was far more powerful than anything she had ever experienced…and he would never let that happen.

He put his hands on her shoulders, like he knew she needed to feel his anchoring presence. "Kira's alive," he beamed.

"Stiles…" she breathed, something between a laugh and a sob being carried along with his name.

She remembers diving into his open arms and the strength with which he closed them around her. She remembers her feet lifting off the ground as he spun her in circles. Lydia could feel Stiles everywhere, holding her closer than he ever had, sparking a tingling heat under her skin that planted seeds of love in the memory of her muscles and took up roots in the marrow of her bones. The triumphant echo of their laughter rang like a melody through the otherwise vacant street. When he set her down, neither of them let go; Lydia with her arms encircling his neck, and Stiles with his hands firmly balanced at her waist, his fingers splayed across her back.

He leaned nearer and nearer…until their foreheads were touching. Slowly, he tucked her hair behind her ear before cradling the side of her face with his hand. "I'm so proud of you," he said. "You did it. _Lydia, you did it."_

Raking her fingers over the collar of his shirt, she corrected him, "No. _We_ did. Stiles…it was _us._ We did it together." Then, she kissed his blushing cheek and arched back to look at him again. "Thank you…for believing in me," she whispered.

"I'll always believe in you," he told her with glossy eyes, and earnest affection.

Lydia let her right hand slide down to his chest, felt his heart accelerate in response. "I'll always believe in you too," she promised.

Stiles kissed her head and held her – so tight she could feel his beats inside of her rib cage.

She was dizzy with happiness. She was in the arms of the boy that she loved, and everything he had done made her _so sure_ he loved her too. He kept his promise to help her, had been with her through every step of a rocky uphill climb. He never once treated her like she was fragile or broken, never once made her feel like she was a burden. There were countless ways she could tell him how much that meant to her, but none seemed good enough, so she embraced him just as tightly and hoped he understood.

A few minutes later, when a squad car pulled into an empty parking space, its red and blue flares lighting up the dark like fireworks, Lydia and Stiles reluctantly parted.

He dug his keys out of his pocket, inquisitive gleam in his eyes when he asked, "Exactly how tired are you right now?"

All of the fatigue that she felt in Sheriff Stilinski's office had left her, so she answered truthfully, "I'm not tired at all… Not anymore anyway."

"Good," he commented while twirling his key ring, "because we need to celebrate."

"How?"

"Well, for one thing…we need French fries…'cause I'm starving."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't refrain from smiling. "Of course you are…but every place has got to be closed because of the blackout."

"Only every place in Beacon Hills. So…why don't we go somewhere else?" he suggested with an irresistibly handsome grin.

Lydia smiled brighter as Stiles popped opened the passenger's side door and extended his hand.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's do that," she willingly agreed, accepting his hand and climbing into the Jeep.

He waited until she was buckled, then shut the door. It took mere seconds for him to jog to the other side of the truck, but in that gap, an unexpected pang of apprehension hit her. It occurred to Lydia that she and Stiles might not spend as much time together in the following weeks, that their research sessions wouldn't seem as necessary and would gradually come to an end...and it upset her even more than she initially anticipated. Sure, the research had been difficult – so much uncertainty, so many dead ends and ambiguous pieces of information, but Lydia never regretted having spent so many hours, so many afternoons and evenings...which occasionally gravitated into mornings, with Stiles.

She reached out; her fingertips landing on his wrist, stopping him from setting the key in the ignition.

He looked at her innocently. "Yeah?"

When she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out.

Stiles jumped to the wrong conclusion. "You having second thoughts?" he asked cautiously, obvious disappointment eclipsing the light in his eyes.

Lydia remembers how much it hurt to see him like that, and it helped her find her voice. "No."

"It's okay. We don't—"

"Stiles, that's not it," she interrupted. "I was just wondering about something."

He relaxed a bit. "Oh… What?"

"You'll still… I mean, now that I… This isn't…"

Embarrassed by the fact that she suddenly couldn't seem to string a sentence together, Lydia huffed with irritation and buried her face in her hands. But Stiles wouldn't let her hide from him. She remembers the way he cuffed her wrists with his fingers, gently pulled them aside, then tilted her chin up until she met his gaze. Heat was rising up her spine, and she held her breath while he observed her with curious eyes, like she was a puzzle he was trying to piece together. Even though she hadn't made any sense, his expression softened; understanding written all over his face.

"Hey…don't even think it," he soothed. "I mean, don't get me wrong… This is a big win for us…but I'm pretty sure we've still got a lot to learn about how your abilities work. Anyway, even if we had it all figured out right now…that wouldn't change a thing. We make a pretty great team so…we've gotta stick together. Right?"

She couldn't help but notice that he had used the word _us._ He had probably done so before but on that night, it stood out to her. On that night, it offered the promise of _more_...and just like that, Lydia could breathe again.

"Right. I knew that but...I wanted to make sure _you_ weren't worried," she covered feebly, shrugging one shoulder and unsuccessfully stifling a giggle.

When she snuck another glance at Stiles, he was nodding his head with skeptical indulgence. "I'm glad we cleared that up, Lyds," he quietly snickered, his hand falling slowly away from her chin. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Let's get out of here."

She remembers the full smile he gave her as he blindly jabbed the key in the ignition. She remembers the excitement that flourished inside of her as the engine turned over and the shine of the headlights which illuminated the path forward. The idea that they could go anywhere was exhilarating, making her heart pound and her stomach somersault.

Lydia pictured the two of them, someday soon she hoped, going on a trip _together_...as a couple. She could see it all so clearly – open road ahead, blue skies above, and golden sunlight in his eyes. She could almost smell a summer breeze blowing through the open windows. She could practically feel him lean in to kiss her before shifting into gear and veering away from the curb.

* * *

By ten p.m., they were outside of Beacon Hills in a town called Bannack. Stiles stopped at a diner, where they got an order of French fries and two iced teas to go. They sat in the Jeep with the windows partially open, tiny drops of dew collecting on the glass and twinkling like stardust. Lydia kicked off her boots, curling her legs underneath her. They shared their fries, like always, and two hours spent talking and laughing passed far too quickly. Stiles was expressive and witty, playfully argumentative...and completely unaware of how charming he was, and Lydia was caught up in the unparalleled bliss of just being with him.

He was so beautiful, so much at ease, so perfectly himself, and she wished she could freeze the moment. So she listened to him, and she paid attention to everything he did, hoping she would always remember what it feels like to fall in love with Stiles.

At one point, he realized that she was getting cold. She remembers how, without ever pausing their conversation, he grabbed his grey striped hoodie, gingerly draped it on top of her legs, and reclined against his seat...like it was no big deal, like he hadn't just treated her with the kind of care that no boy ever had. She remembers mouthing a _thank you_ as she lifted her hand to tame a few wayward strands of his hair and that he smiled before timidly averting his stare to the nearly empty box of fries.

"Last one's got your name on it," he said – like always. But on that night, those words sounded more like _I love you._

She accepted the gesture, popping the French fry into her mouth; its salty remnants sticking to her fingertips and the sweetness of Stiles's unwavering kindness adhering to her heart.

"Guess we should probably get back...huh?"

"I guess." She remembers being unable to disguise the gloomy inflection in her tone. She didn't want the night to end, and it gave her an idea. Once the Jeep thundered to a start, she spoke. "I think when we get to Beacon Hills, you should take Sanford Avenue."

With apparent confusion he responded, "If I take Sanford, then I have to detour to Beech because there's that whole section of the bridge under construction."

"I know."

"Well, that's kinda the long way. It'll take at least an extra twenty…" he trailed off, comprehension manifesting in a wondrously angelic grin. "You know what? You're right. Let's take Sanford."

Stiles had his right hand resting on the gear stick. After Lydia conquered an unwelcome bout of nervousness, one which months earlier might have kept her motionless, she stopped fiddling with the hem of her leather mini skirt and placed her hand on top of his...for the very first time. He kept his eyes on her – a little surprised, a little shy, but mostly he looked…happy. When he caught her pinky between his thumb and index finger and gave it a squeeze, she felt happy too, and that was how they remained for the rest of the long drive home.

* * *

 **Present Day**

When the last image of her memory fades into the background, Lydia is still standing by the Jeep. Stiles is behind her with his arms securely enveloping her and his lips pressed to the side of her temple. Her hands are clutching his forearm, and she reflexively tightens her grip as she looks at him over her shoulder.

"Hey...there you are," he greets her. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she answers, feeling a bit guilty for spacing out on him again. "How long was it this time?"

He appears calm, but there is the slightest indication of a quiver in his voice when he replies, "Only a couple of minutes longer than usual."

"You were worried. Weren't you?"

"A little…but you know me – that's what I do," he admits with a bashful smile.

Lydia takes a slow breath and turns, sliding her arms around him and nudging his nose with hers. "I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to apologize for. You seemed mostly relaxed…and I got to hold you in the meantime, so you won't hear me complaining."

She smiles and stretches up to give him a kiss, fully intending for it to be soft and chaste, and finding it impossible to stop herself from deepening it. Stiles doesn't make it any easier for her – kisses her like he has been aching for her while steering her in reverse steps until she is wedged between his body and the Jeep. His hands roam; one sneaking below the lace of her top, the other dipping into the back pocket of her shorts. He doesn't go too far, but in his touch lies the promise of _more_. She thinks of being with him again…in his room and in hers. She thinks of the upcoming days they will spend together, doing everything...or even nothing at all. With Stiles so close, there is a lot to look forward to.

He breaks from their kiss to whisper in her ear, "I hope it was a good memory at least."

"Yeah, it was," she assures him, enjoying how his eyes light up when she adds, "We were together, and I didn't want to go home."

"Kind of like how we feel today... Huh?"

"Very much like it." She sets her hand above his heart; its pace steadily affirming the intensity of his love. "I'll tell you more about it on the way."

Stiles gives her a hug and a kiss at the pulse point of her neck that makes her giggle. Then he pops open the door, waits for her to get comfortably seated, and shuts it quietly before enthusiastically jogging to the driver's side. Lydia notices how his hand lovingly skims the light blue steel of the hood, and she watches the joyful amazement animate his face when he starts up the Jeep. The engine sounds the same…but better; familiar sonorous rumble, but without that hesitant shudder it used to make before it kicks over.

Regarding her with awestruck gratitude, he questions, "How am I ever gonna thank you for this?"

"You already have. That look on your face right now is...everything."

He touches her cheek and encourages her closer; their foreheads meeting in a kiss of skin to skin contact.

"So…what do you think, Lyds? Should we take the main highway or the scenic route?"

It's not a difficult choice. She is determined to spend every moment she can with him. "Whichever is the long way home," she chooses.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he sighs. After he presses his lips to hers once more, Stiles positions his right hand on the gear stick. "How about we stop by the cove for a while too?"

She places her hand on top of his, and he hooks his index with her pinky, giving it a light squeeze, same as he has ever since the night in her memory.

"I'd love that," she smiles.

As they reach the city limits, Lydia takes one last look back. It's bittersweet – part of her wanting to stay in the place where she has nothing but good memories to keep her warm, another part of her anticipating all that is ahead of them. When she refocuses on Stiles and sees the golden hue of the city that he carries within his eyes, every trace of sadness disappears.

She swiftly realizes that the most important things, she will never leave behind; Stiles and the infinite love between them, memories – both newly made and newly recovered, and the promise of so much more.

* * *

On the way to the cove, Lydia tells Stiles about her memory. He listens, and she can see how much it means to him to hear how strong her feelings were, even then. He tells her that he loves her, that what happened between them that night changed him on the inside and made him believe that a future with her was more than just a dream. She wants to kiss him so badly it hurts, but there is nowhere to pull the Jeep over, so she kisses the pads of her middle and index fingers and touches them to his lips...and he smiles because he understands.

The drive is scenic indeed. Skyscrapers shrink to high rises, high rises dwindle to residences, only the distances between those structures increasing as the Jeep takes Lydia and Stiles farther from the city. Along the road, grassy hills morph into dense woodland. Little by little, the tree line withdraws; nothing but auburn sea cliffs to their left, sloping fault coast and swelling turquoise ocean to their right.

With the windows rolled down and a summer breeze blowing in, Lydia and Stiles reminisce about the week they spent in detention. How even though Coach Finstock infamously doled out detentions for offenses far less serious than pulling the fire alarm, by some stroke of luck, they were the only two people in the room each day. How they spent the majority of the time exchanging glances and discreetly passing notes. How they only had to sit apart from each other until Coach inevitably fell asleep at his desk. Then, they would always move closer.

* * *

At Beryl Cove, Lydia and Stiles are pleased to find that they have the beach to themselves. After stopping for a late lunch at _Morning Tide_ , they headed to the beach. The sky was blue, and the clouds were sparse. They walked barefoot in the sand, impressing a mile-long trail of footprints into the dampened shoreline. Bathed in sunlight, they shared hugs and kisses. Hours passed. All the while, their harmonious rapport allowed them to naturally fluctuate between comfortable silence, lighthearted conversation, and outbursts of uncontrollable laughter.

Now, the sun is beginning to set. All the colors around them are soft; pale yellow sphere sinking in a rose petal sky, its rays glistening on calm waters that are shading to grey and ruffled with whitecaps.

They have spread a blanket in the sand. Stiles is seated on top, and Lydia is in front of him with her back propped against his chest. The skin of his cheek is pressed to hers, his arms holding her close.

"What do you see when you look out there?" he asks, lifting a hand to point towards the horizon.

She glides her palm down the length of his arm, takes his hand, and directs it to the powdery grains that surround them. Using his index finger, Lydia traces the symbol that Stiles etched into the sand less than two weeks earlier – a heart with the initials _LM + MS_ carved inside, complete with the infinity sign she contributed as well.

"You... Us... Forever," she answers over the hushed sound of leisurely waves.

She feels his body quake with emotion. He cups the back of her head, guides her legs across his lap, and carefully lays her down on their blanket. Lips falling slowly to connect with hers, Stiles kisses Lydia with passionate dedication.

When he pauses, she keeps him close; the weight of him above her, pleasantly grounding. As she has done many times in the past month, she caresses his face and gazes into his eyes...and _there_ she sees all the love she has for him reflecting back at her.

It's the kind of remarkable thing that happens whenever either of them uses words like _us_ or _forever_.

Before she and Stiles were together, words such as those had been veiled by a haze of skepticism and uncertainty. But now, they have true meaning. Now, they are as genuine as the support of his arms around her and as sure as the tugging at the center of her chest.

She has no doubt that what they have is _real_ because she can see it in his eyes and feel it within every beat of her heart.

And every day, every moment between them, with every memory that resurfaces and every new one they create, it only becomes clearer – _forever_ isn't just a dream anymore.

Forever is _their future_.

Forever is right in front of her eyes.

Stiles makes sure that she knows he feels the same. "I see it too, Lydia," he whispers. "I see it too."


	19. Your Eyes

Your eyes  
Your eyes they tell me everything  
The first, the last, and in between  
That's everything...  
\- Not Just a Girl by She Wants Revenge

I will love you...in long conversations about hard topics.  
\- Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

On Friday, Lydia is on her way to pick up Stiles for lunch. She is taking the quickest route to his house because she can't wait to see him.

It's one of those days when everything falls into place. The drive is a pleasant one. Sunlight filters onto the windshield through tree branches that arch across both sides of the street, their abundance of leaves creating a dense green canopy overhead. A summer breeze carries the scent of star jasmine and fresh cut grass through the open windows. She feels good – _happy,_ and every song on the radio reminds her of Stiles. Even the traffic gods seem to be smiling down on her because she doesn't hit a single red light and arrives in record time.

She parks in front of number 129 on Woodbine Lane, then adjusts a few flyaway strands that have come loose from her half-updo before getting out of the car. With fondness, she takes in the sight of the cozy one-story dwelling that owns a piece of her heart. She steps onto the curb and follows the cement path, gauzy white mini dress and long copper tresses flowing behind her as she strides to the porch.

Entering with her key and locking the wooden door behind her, she calls out, "Stiles..."

"In here, Lyds," he answers from his bedroom.

She hangs her key ring on the wall hook and proceeds down the hallway to the first room on the left. The door is wide open, welcoming her inside. Stiles is standing in front of his closet; bare feet, black jeans, shirtless. He is reaching for a tee when she approaches the threshold, and she smiles.

It still feels like a miracle to see him here. Not long ago, this room was a hollow cavern, its emptiness casting a shadow over her heart, when it was stripped of the sole presence that makes it more than four walls, a ceiling, and a floor; the one that transforms it into a safe haven, a place of comfort, _home._

But now, everything is as it should be; vacant space bursting with life and memories, souls reunited, shadows surpassed by light.

"Hey, handsome," she greets him.

He looks over his shoulder, crooked grin gracing his perfect mouth. "Hey yourself, gorgeous."

Heading straight for his open arms, she closes the distance between them while her heart beats in anticipation of his kiss.

His hands seek the curves of her waist, and his eyes reflect a mix of excitement and longing. "I'm almost ready, just gotta get a shirt on. Oh, yeah..." he tacks on, glancing downwards, "and shoes would probably be a good idea too."

Lydia shrugs one shoulder. "Don't rush on my account," she flirts, letting her hands explore the length of his chest and abs.

She feels Stiles quiver with laughter, his arms winding all of the way around her as he hunches down to get closer.

And the wait is over. She gets her kiss. A kiss that is soft and slow, like a love song, every note between their lips more lyrical than the music she was listening to in her car. Lydia lets herself get swept up in it, in Stiles, in everything they are together.

"Mmm..." he purrs. "I missed you last night...and this morning."

"I missed you too," she sighs, closing her eyes and focusing on the sensation of his lips, which have traveled to the skin of her neck.

Reluctantly breaking for a breath, he takes both of her hands and steps away. "Let me look at you," he says, shaking his head...like he can't believe she is standing in front of him. "Seriously, you are so, _SO_ beautiful. I think you're even more beautiful than the last time I saw you," he compliments before twirling her in a circle.

Stiles tells Lydia that she is beautiful all the time, but it _still_ gets to her because she has never felt so much meaning behind those words; words that only ever went skin deep...until Stiles spoke them. She thinks of one of the first memories she recovered on the night he came home to her. They stood under a starry winter sky; her in a satin dress, him in a suit and tie. _Well, I think you look beautiful,_ he had said. _Really?_ she answered. Because he caught her off-guard. Because _the look_ in his eyes gave her the impression that he saw more than makeup and a pretty dress, that he saw _her_ – a person with genuine feelings and a heart, one that may have been a little bit bruised but which was no less deserving of kindness and care.

The room spins from motion and memory, but she lands safely – her back against his chest, his arms secured around her.

That's when she sees it.

An empty space in his closet.

She stares. She thinks she knows what it means, but it almost seems too good to be true.

"Why are your clothes pushed to one side like that?" she asks.

He fumbles briefly, "Oh...uh... I was..."

She finds her balance, turns to face him, and is met with a timorous but hopeful expression.

"It was this...idea I had." He pauses to clear his throat, his cheeks a bashful shade of pink. "I thought you might want to leave a few things here...you know...for when you stay over."

"When did you do that?"

"When we got back from San Francisco."

Limitless thoughts race through her mind...each of them orbiting the undeniable certainty that she loves Stiles more than anything in the world. Lydia feels an irrepressible smile forming on her lips – one so big that she worries it's goofy, but she can't stop herself, doesn't even try. Stiles is making her lose all care for any of the nonsensical rules to which she used to adhere.

She doesn't mean for it to, but her muted response makes him nervous.

His hands fidget at her waist, and he does that thing where he starts rambling to fill silence. "Okay... You're smiling – which is good, but you're not saying anything so...maybe you're trying to think of a way to let me down easy...'cause maybe it's too much...or too soon or—"

"Stiles."

"It is. Isn't' it? I just thought…" he searches for words, scrunching up his face in the cutest, most vulnerably endearing way. "I dunno... I thought since—"

"Stiles, stop." Cupping his face to cool his hot cheeks with her palms, she assures him, "It's not too much or too soon – not as far as I'm concerned. I'm really happy about this. I'm _more_ than happy, and..."

"And what?"

"I did the same thing… _for you_...in my closet...the same day."

The last bit of apprehension fades from his face, and the sparkle returns to his eyes; cheerful and bright – as lit up as she feels on the inside.

"You did?"

"Yeah, I did."

"That was three days ago...and neither of us said anything," he comments with incredulous awe. "Lydia, do you know what that means?"

"That we're both idiots?"

"Exactly!" he smiles, drawing her into a hug and lifting her off the floor.

Their laughter rings out; a new memory forged in sound, its cherished echo reverberating inside the chambers of their hearts and imprinting a permanent mark.

When Stiles sets Lydia down, she rests her head on his shoulder, her fingertips tracing infinity signs on his spine as he languidly sways her body.

"So... When should we do this?"

"Tomorrow?" she suggests.

"Yeah, tomorrow's great. The sooner the better." He kisses her forehead and releases a breath, slowly relaxing his grip on her. "While we're on the subject of clothes... I forgot there's a load of laundry in the dryer. I told my dad I'd take care of it before we leave."

She watches him grab a grey tee shirt from the closet and pull it over his head. "Do you want help?" she offers, as he adjusts his sleeves and runs a hand through his hair.

"It's okay. I'll be quick. I've got a patented method and _serious_ incentive to get back here as soon as possible."

"Alright," she smirks, casually examining her fingernails. "I guess I'll just stay here...waiting for you to come back and kiss me some more."

Stiles throws his head back and laughs, then catches her hand and lifts it to his lips before disappearing into the hall.

Within seconds, he reappears in the doorway, eyes shining with euphoric affection. "Okay, I just have to say... I'm _so_ incredibly happy right now...and I like desperately need one more kiss."

Their smiles collide; one kiss turns into several, the last three docking at the corner of her mouth, punctuated by a succession of little moans, "Muah, muah, muah. I'll be less than ten minutes. I promise."

"I'll be here," she replies over the giddy chortle that elevates from the base of her throat.

The image of his smile remains in her mind even after he departs.

With love-struck joy, Lydia admires the generous space in his closet, her hand pressing into her stomach to appease the butterflies that are demanding her attention. Her eyes scan his clothes... Plaid flannel button-downs and cotton crew neck tees, henleys and his favorite baseball jacket, a grouping of sweatshirts and hoodies including a royal blue one, a grey striped one...and a bright red one.

She stares at it for a moment, then unzips it and slides it off the hanger. As she hugs the bundle of fabric to her chest, she feels something deep inside – a tugging behind her rib cage, something that can bring her closer to Stiles. She thinks if she surrounds herself with it, she will be able to figure it out. So, she drapes the hoodie over her shoulders, snuggles in, and closes her eyes...and that's when she remembers.

 _She remembers a September night during senior year. A night when Stiles needed her, and she was there for him..._

* * *

Lydia was at Beacon Hills Memorial, in the waiting area on the ground floor – the same place that she and Stiles always agreed to meet if ever they got separated while they were at the hospital. The fingers of her left hand were impatiently tapping against the scuffed wooden arm of the chair she was sitting in, and her opposite hand was rigidly holding her phone. She remembers that when she and Stiles arrived, it was daylight, but through the sliding doors that led to the parking lot, she could see that the sun had since set and evening had descended. Fluorescent bulbs flooded the space with artificial light, and dense, muggy air intermittently drifted into the space as person after person entered and exited the building. Minutes ticked away on the wall clock. Still, there was no sign of Stiles.

They had been on the second floor together, and she was trying to understand what happened to her during her surgery, just one week prior. The empty operating room was dark, and it was making her uneasy.

 _Can you turn the lights on?_ she inquired.

She remembers the flick of the switches behind her.

 _Um...not going on._

 _Ugh...ask someone,_ she responded with an edge that she immediately regretted.

 _I thought this was more of an auditory thing._

 _I still want to...see what I'm hearing,_ she explained.

 _Makes sense,_ he commented quietly.

And with that, he pushed through the doors and disappeared into the hallway.

In the meantime, Lydia searched for anything that could trigger her memory. The sounds and images resurfaced, but the lights never came on, and most importantly, Stiles didn't come back.

She was officially worried. All of her calls kept going to his voicemail. In vain, she tried to occupy her mind by observing the other people in the room and aimlessly flipping through a magazine. At one point, she even estimated the number of tiles on the floor. She remembers how she sprung from her seat when she saw a flash of bright red – _red_ like the hoodie Stiles had been wearing. When she realized it wasn't him, her shoulders sagged with displeasure.

She began to pace, craning her neck every so often to get a better view of the lobby. That was when she spotted Melissa McCall near the nurses' station. She remembers Melissa telling her that she had talked to Stiles about fifteen minutes before. He asked her why the upper level had limited power, and she informed him that maintenance was trying to resolve the issue.

"Last I saw, he was getting on the elevator," Melissa said.

That meant Stiles should have found her already.

Lydia frowned, the knot in her stomach twisted more severely as she wondered where he could be and what could have happened.

She remembers the feeling of Melissa's hand on her upper arm; gentle and warm. "Is everything alright, honey?"

"No."

Melissa furrowed her brows. "I take it he never made it back to you."

"No, and he's not answering his phone either. We usually meet down here but..." she trailed off.

"Well, you know Stiles..." Melissa began with a small smile, her tone compassionate and maternal when she continued, "he probably got sidetracked. I'm sure he'll turn up soon...and if I see him while I'm on my rounds, I'll let him know you're looking for him. Okay?"

Lydia thanked Melissa and returned to the waiting room. Stiles wasn't there. She was just about to call him again when her phone buzzed. The sudden vibration in her hand made her jump. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, then she looked at the screen. She remembers the relief that washed over her when she saw a text from Stiles. The message read: _Something came up, Lyds. Don't wait for me_. She remembers scrolling downwards, expecting to see some sort of explanation but finding none. Very quickly, her relief mutated into confusion...and hurt.

It wasn't like Stiles to be so brief and cryptic with her – not at all...at least, it didn't used to be. If he hadn't used her nickname, the one _he_ gave her, the one only _he_ had ever called her, she wouldn't believe those were really his words.

She tried to shrug off her offense, texting back: _What happened?_

Then, she waited...

No reply came, so she relinquished an exasperated exhale and headed for the parking lot. A brusque click of her key fob unlocked her car; sharp beep and fleeting illumination of her headlights flickering in the dark. She gruffly yanked the door open and plopped into the driver's seat, slamming the door alongside her – but she had moved too quickly, heedlessly pulling her stitches in the process. Lydia remembers the unpleasant sting on the right side of her abdomen, where a line of sutures bound the soft tissue of her skin. She grimaced, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her mouth with her fist. In frustration, she tossed her phone to the empty space next to her...where Stiles had been sitting only a few hours before.

As if he were beside her, she heard his voice. _Does anything hurt?_

Lydia instantly thought of the caring way he regarded her earlier that day, how visibly distressed he was when he learned that the memory of seeing her grandmother in Eichen House literally knocked her to the ground. He had waited for her by her locker. He didn't say anything, but his head was tilted to one side and his eyes told her everything she needed to know. He had been scared, and he needed reassurance that she was okay. She watched his hand release the strap of his backpack and let him lead her into one of the unoccupied classrooms. In the lightest of touches, he grazed his thumbs across her cheekbones. She held her breath as he proceeded to slide his fingers to the back of her head, her neck, and down the length of her spinal column...like he was checking her for injuries. She might have laughed – if not for the intensely earnest focus of his eyes, if he wasn't being so sweet, if the touch of his hands wasn't turning her insides to jelly, if she didn't love him _so damn much._

 _Does anything hurt?_ he had asked.

In truth, she was fine...at least on the outside, but her heart – that was another story. She had been aching _for him_ for weeks...months...for even longer than she cared to calculate. But she couldn't tell him that, so she fibbed with a simple, _no,_ while struggling to maintain eye contact. Because if she averted her eyes, Stiles would definitely know she wasn't being honest. Because if she held his gaze, he might be able to see the truth that was hidden in her stare. Because he was so beautiful, in every sense of the word, that sometimes it hurt to look at him.

He winced, curiosity crossing his face, and she feared he might press further, but instead, he sighed, nodding his head before giving her a hug. The dam of restraint inside her almost buckled from the force of emotion that was coursing through her body. She grasped the sides of his hoodie, as if it would help her regain control. Lydia remembers that she almost lost it when his lips tapped ever so lightly upon her forehead. It took all of her strength not to lean into him until she could feel his heartbeat against hers, so she could find out if it still reacted to her the way it used to. As if Stiles could read her mind, he drew her a little closer...and there it was – increasingly fast, but strong and effortlessly synchronizing with her own. She had her answer, and the torrent calmed.

Stiles held her for a long, comforting moment. A few feet away, the hallway was abuzz with activity and noise, but within that room, they were the only two people in the world. She felt his chest expand and contract with hers. When he slowly unwound his arms from her, he maintained the physical link between them, taking her right hand and clasping it tightly. Together they moved towards the doorway, but a nostalgic pang made her want to look back. When she did, Lydia realized that she and Stiles were in the room where they had English class during junior year, the same room where he had shielded her from shattering glass and a conspiracy of feral ravens.

She tugged on his hand and whispered his name. _Stiles... Remember?_

His eyes blinked rapidly, brown flecked with gold, twinkling with the light of wistful recognition. _Yeah, Lyds,_ he said softly. _I remember._

Then he gave her a smile that pushed away the last glimmer of sadness from her heart, and they went to meet Scott and Kira at the far end of the corridor.

That was _her Stiles._

A vague text after neglecting to answer her calls was not.

Something was wrong. Lydia knew it, and she was going to find out what _it_ was. She didn't care how late it was getting. Stiles had to go home eventually...and when he did, she would be waiting for him. Determined, she started her car and drove to Woodbine Lane, making use of every shortcut. After parking by the curb, she marched up the cement path and sat on the brick steps that led to the porch.

Nearly forty-five minutes passed by, nothing but the irritatingly repetitive chirp of crickets in the shrubbery and the stagnant air of an early autumn night that still felt like summer. Lydia set her elbows on her knees and propped her chin on the heels of her hands, shifting her perception from the floral design of her red dress to the darkened street. That was when she saw glowing headlights and heard the familiar, albeit laboring rumble of the Jeep.

Once Stiles pulled into the driveway, the door popped open and he emerged from behind it with a baffled expression on his face. "Lydia? What are you— Are you alright?"

She remembers the sound of his keys jingling as he shoved them into the pocket of his grey jeans and hastened his stride to get to her. She was relieved to see him...happy even...but she was also upset and aggravated because he seemed confused to see her there, as if he was oblivious to the fact that he had worried her.

"Are _you?"_ she snapped, spontaneous burst of emotion manipulating her pitch.

When she abruptly rose to her feet, her stitches pulled again; this time more severely than the last. The discomfort caused her to flinch, and despite her best efforts not to react further, her hand involuntarily clutched at her side.

Stiles reached for her without hesitation. Fingers looping around her elbows, he tried to encourage her towards the steps. "Lydia...whoa...easy. Sit down."

She refused, digging the heels of her knee-high boots into the pavement beneath her feet. "I've _been_ sitting...for almost an hour here...and another half an hour at the hospital," she gritted out.

"I sent you a text. I told you not to wait for me... I even used _Lyds,_ so you'd know it was me," he defensively retorted, volume beginning to ascend.

 _"Something came up,"_ she quoted. "Could you have been any more vague? What was I supposed to think? What if I had sent _you_ a message like that?"

His face reshaped with comprehension. "I... I would've freaked out," he admitted.

He sighed and let go of her arms, but she could still feel his touch; lingering tenderness and heat. She could see the remorse in his eyes, and it got to her. _Stiles_ got to her, made her regret her harshness and remember why she had gone to his house in the first place. Because if anyone deserved the benefit of the doubt, _it was him_. Because somehow, she knew he needed her, and she wanted to be there for him _._ Because she loved him.

She huffed out a breath and let go of her side to tug on the front of his hoodie. "What happened to you?" she asked with intentional softness. "Where did you go?"

"To the clinic...to meet Scott."

"How did you get there without a car?"

His jaw twitched and he lowered his eyes. "I went with Theo."

"Theo?" she scoffed.

It was no secret that Stiles didn't trust him. He was barely able to tolerate him.

"Look, I didn't have much of a choice. _Please_..." he implored, "just sit with me, and I'll explain. Okay?"

She remembers the considerate way he took both of her hands. He led her to the steps and waited for her to sit. When she looked up at him and gave him a small smile, he sat close beside her, keeping her left locked with his right and resting their hands on his knee. For an extended moment he stared at their linked digits, his thumb skimming over her index finger. He hadn't done that in a while. It felt good; longed for and reassuring, and it made her stomach swirl with affection for him.

"I'm listening," Lydia coaxed.

He turned to face her. "So...there's another...actually _two_ other chimeras, a guy named Josh and also—"

"Hayden," she interjected.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"I heard her name when I was in the surgical room. Is she...?"

"No, she's alive."

"Good."

"But Josh...isn't."

Lydia pursed her lips and glanced at the sky, and Stiles set his other hand between her shoulder blades; the weight of it a focal point, more orienting than the North Star.

"Lyds, what is it?"

"I had a vision. There was a boy... I think maybe I've seen him before...at school. He had light skin, and dark hair, and big brown eyes."

"That sounds like Josh. Did you get anything else?"

"He was strapped to an operating table, and the Dread Doctors were performing some kind of procedure on him. Stiles...I could feel how terrified he was. He was begging them not to hurt him, but they wouldn't stop. They said his 'condition worsens'. That's all I remember." She sucked in an unsteady gasp, shivering with dismay.

"Okay, try to relax. Breathe."

His hand began gliding up and down her back. The soothing contact loosened the tension that plagued her body, and she calmed.

"Is Hayden alright?"

"Uh...she's pretty shaken up, but I guess she's coping the best she can. Scott and Liam are with her."

"And what about you? What happened at the hospital? Why didn't you come get me?"

"I couldn't. Josh was on the roof...and Theo was there and...we had to move him before..."

Lydia's eyes blurred when she thought of the girl that she had tried...and failed to help. "Before he was taken...like Tracy," she finished for him.

"Yeah. I couldn't exactly explain all that in a text."

"I get it," she shrugged.

He slowed the motion of his hand, pressing a little more firmly into the small of her back. "Do you? I mean, you know I'd never brush you off... Right? I just didn't want to get you caught up in such a mess."

"I might have been able to help you."

"I'm sure you could have, under whatever counts as normal circumstances around here, but...you've been through so much...with what happened to you today and your surgery. You're still healing. You have to take it easy."

"That's nearly impossible in this town," she griped flatly.

"Maybe, but..." his voice faded out. He pushed her hair behind her shoulder, his eyes glossy and stricken with grief when he resumed, "Lydia, it's barely been a week since I saw you...bleeding on the floor of my dad's office, and I kinda can't get that image out of my head. I know that you don't need me to protect you, but it was instinct for me to want to keep you away from this...to want to keep you from getting hurt again. I have to try. You know?"

Her composure started to wane. Stiles had never been anything less than honest about how much he cared for her, but there was something exceptional about the deliberate and passionate inflection of his tone, the superior gentleness of his touch, and the intensity of his eyes that night. Everything about him heightened her awareness of just how much feeling was intrinsically tied to his words...and it made her love him more.

She remembers answering, "Yes, I do," without a second thought.

And it was the truth. She _did_ know, because she would do the same for him.

She was about to tell him so when he asked, "Are you mad at me?"

"No," she responded with a silent laugh; besotted by the innocent nature of his question. Lightly bumping his thigh with a closed fist, she tossed him a bewildered glare. "How could I be?"

"Not even a little?" he challenged skeptically; one eyebrow raised in an arch.

"Okay, I _was_...but mostly..."

"What?" He shifted closer, his hand sliding beneath her hair to rub the nape of her neck, his infinitely perfect touch speeding up her heart rate and loosening her tongue.

"I was scared." She adjusted her grip on his hand and held his gaze. "When you didn't answer, I thought something happened to you...and I was _really_ scared."

"I didn't want that. I _never_ want you to be scared. Things just kind of snowballed. I can't seem to get a handle on _anything_ lately. There's so much coming at us...and it all feels so out of control."

He gradually exhaled and lifted their snugly laced fingers so he could lean his forehead against the back of her hand. She gave them both a minute, then nudged his chin with her index finger to get him to look at her again. What she saw stole the breath from her lungs.

She remembers the depths of pain in his eyes. Pain that she believed went beyond what she already knew about that night and the difficulty of recent weeks. Lydia wanted nothing more than to help him. She was so sure that if they talked a while longer, she could get him to tell her what was troubling him. So she bared a little more of her soul, in the hopes that it would make it easier for him to do the same.

"Stiles, I feel it too...but you can't just... You can't disappear like that. I can't lose you." She strained over every syllable as her throat relentlessly constricted around her vocal cords.

"I know," he replied with conviction. "I know. I can't lose you either. Come here..." Before she could blink, she was wrapped in his embrace. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Lyds."

She nodded her forgiveness into his shoulder, faint whimper muffled by the fabric of his hoodie, scent of pine needles, clean cotton, and Stiles permeating her lungs.

"Don't worry. I'm alright," he feebly insisted, holding her a bit tighter.

She wasn't sure which of them he was trying to convince – her or himself.

"No, you're not."

"What do you mean?"

"There's something you're not telling me. Something else that's bothering you." She pulled back and set her hands on his shoulders. "Does it have to do with why you were on the roof?"

His eyes widened, his cheeks flushed, and Lydia knew she was right.

She cautiously continued, "Before, you said Josh and Theo were on the roof...but you didn't say why you went up there in the first place."

"I was... I thought I was..."

"You had your memory. Didn't you? You had your memory, and it hurt you...a lot."

"How'd you know?"

"I can see it...right there in your eyes."

"Of course you can," he noted softly. "You're... _you."_

"Is that bad?"

"No. Nothing about you is bad." He touched her cheek, warmhearted smile reaching all the way to his eyes and making her heart leap in response. Then, he scrunched up his face. "I mean...it's a little intimidating that you can read me so well – makes surprising you absurdly difficult," he teased with a playful roll of his eyes, "but more than anything else...it's...pretty amazing. No one knows me the way you do. I kinda love that."

"Yeah, me too," she smiled back.

While they looked at each other, the atmosphere shifted; rising breeze swishing past them, rustling nearby tree branches, and emancipating a handful of rust-colored leaves. They fell slowly and scattered on the ground where they were dragged across the pavement in swirling circles. It was peaceful. The first peaceful reprieve they had experienced together in weeks.

"Do you want to tell me what you remembered?" she asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Stiles stood and helped Lydia up. "Come inside. I think we're gonna need hot chocolate for this," he informed her, towing her towards the house.

She remembers the well-known creak of the door as it opened, the quiet thud of it closing, and the secure snap when Stiles locked it behind them. She remembers blindly locating the switches on the wall as easily as she could in her own house and the distinct sensation of warmth that settled over her when the lights came on. It was the kind of warmth she only ever experienced at the Stilinskis'. The kind of warmth that blossomed from the inside and flourished with every step deeper into the space. It was welcoming. It felt like acceptance, like belonging...like _home._

Stiles hung his keys on the hook in the hallway, then unzipped his hoodie and led Lydia into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, they were in the living room, cups of cocoa topped with eight mini marshmallows in hand and the air conditioning turned up a few notches because it was still fairly hot in Beacon Hills. They toed off their shoes, neatly arranging them side by side under the coffee table. She remembers exactly how they sat on the couch; each of them with one leg drawn up onto the cushions so that they could face each other, their limbs close enough that their knees were making contact. At first, they didn't speak. They simply reveled in the ritual of it all – the flavor of molten chocolate and sweet fluffy marshmallows, the precious quiet time with only the dim light of two lamps and the comfort of each other's company to alleviate the darkness.

When Stiles was ready to talk, he put their empty cups aside. Lydia listened, taking both of his hands and fighting her own tears as he recounted every painful detail of the memory. How he followed the apparition of his mother up to the roof of the hospital. How he called for her, but she didn't respond. How she was gesturing with her arms and pacing while she muttered indiscernibly to herself. Claudia had been dangerously close to the edge of the roof when his father appeared.

Lydia remembers the anguish in Stiles's eyes and how they began to water as he described the image of his father carefully approaching his mother in the depths of such a precariously fragile state. Noah coaxed Claudia towards him with open arms and a steady tone; his voice laden with concern, but still patient, understanding, and loving. For Lydia, it wasn't difficult to imagine the sound. All she had to do was think of Stiles – all those times he had been there for her, calm and reassuring, expressive of so much compassion and affection.

Stiles vividly recalled how small his mother looked in her hospital gown; smaller still when she was enveloped in his father's arms. His tears overflowed when he described how real it all felt – not as if he was looking back at a memory, but rather, he was _in_ that awful moment from his childhood. He had even seen the shadow of his younger self cast before him. Large droplets streamed down his face and trickled off the sharp angles of his jawline, leaving dark splotches on the front of his hoodie.

"Oh... Stiles, I'm so sorry." She let go of his hands to cradle his cheeks.

"That's not even the worst of it." He broke over the words, "She said she couldn't stand to be in the same room with me, she lunged at me...started hitting me and shouting to stop looking at her. She thought... She—she thought I was trying to kill her."

Lydia remembers the way he ducked his head and how swiftly her arms encircled him. His forehead nestled into the curve between her neck and shoulder, and his whole body trembled with sobs; some of his tears soaking into her dress, others slipping across her skin.

Moving closer, she ignored the nipping at her stitches and focused on the tugging in her heart. She held him, combing her fingers through his hair, rubbing his back, and repeating, "I'm here. I'm right here. I've got you."

Lydia didn't tell him it was okay. She knew it wasn't. She hated that she couldn't fix what had broken inside of him, but she clung to him, offering her love in every possible way, so he would know that he wasn't alone.

When Stiles calmed, he sat up; boyish quality about him as he wiped his tears with his sleeves. "I never thought I'd say this about my mom...but I wish I hadn't remembered at all," he sniffled, "I... I feel like I've lost something...a piece of her...the way I wanted to remember her. Does that make any sense?"

"Of course it does." She adjusted her position next to him and placed her hand on his forearm. "And I could tell you that it wasn't really her, that she didn't mean any of the things she said. I could even explain the science behind it...that it was the dementia causing her to have delusions. But you already know all of that, and it doesn't make it any easier. Does it?"

"No."

"But you know what might though?"

"What?"

"All the _good_ memories you have of her. I don't believe for one second that this is the last time you'll have a memory of your mom. I bet you still have a bunch more locked safely inside of you," she clarified, pointing to his heart. "Maybe someday, when you least expect it, one of them will pop into your mind...and it will be like getting that part of her back."

"You think so?" he asked, brows cinched and lips parted, as if her opinion was of the utmost importance to him.

"Yeah, I do...and maybe when that happens, you'll tell me about it."

His mouth formed an upside-down smile. "Definitely. I hope I have the chance soon."

"Me too," she replied, swiping the last of his tears with her thumbs.

Tossing his head back, he sighed and massaged the nape of his neck. "It's been a long day. You must be pretty tired," he commented.

She recognized the trepidation in him, felt it pulsing through her veins as well. Lydia didn't want to leave Stiles, and the way he was looking at her made it clear that he didn't want her to go either. She couldn't see the point in separating when they both still needed each other.

"Mmm..." she conceded. "It's probably not a good idea for me to drive when I'm so tired. Is it okay if I stay?"

He lit up; irises flaring with an iridescent sheen, corners of his mouth rising. "Yeah, you're always welcome here. You know that," he softly reminded her.

Side by side, they sunk against the back of the couch. Stiles easily found her hand, their digits fitting perfectly together...like always.

"Thank you, Lydia. Not just for tonight. For everything. You're always here for me when I need you," he told her.

She didn't need to see his eyes to know he meant it...but she looked anyway, because she wanted to. Because Stiles had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen – so honest, and bright, and incomparably captivating, and she wanted to gaze into them for as long as she could.

"I always want to be," she said, "just like you are for me."

When she put her head on his shoulder, he leaned into her. Shortly after...they both drifted to sleep.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia is sitting on the floor in front of Stiles's closet, his hoodie still pulled tightly around her. She is dabbing the last of her tears with the cuffs of the sleeves when she hears him quietly enter the room.

He sits down, cross-legged with his back to the closet and a gentle smile directed at her. "Whatcha doin'?" In his voice, there is a hint of concern, but in his eyes, there are worlds more patience, understanding, and love.

"Remembering you," she whispers.

With only her fingertips peeking out from the sleeves of his hoodie, she places her hand over his heart. She watches his smile broaden, then she kisses him; faint of pressure but fierce with passion, their mouths moving in absolute harmony with the ardent _thump-thump-thump_ beneath her palm.

When they part, she sets her sight on the brilliance of the two topaz gems of his irises.

"Did I ever tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen?"

"Lyds..." he melts.

"It's true. Your eyes...they tell me everything about you, and I love that. I could spend the rest of my life staring into them."

He inches nearer, bracing his hands against the floor on either side of her. "Well, then that makes me the luckiest guy in the universe...because I'll get to stare right back into yours." He kisses her forehead, each of her eyelids, and finally her mouth, then he encourages her to lie down, his hoodie puddling behind her and cushioning her head.

She clutches the front of his shirt so he knows she wants him close, and he hovers over her for a minute, alternating kisses with dulcet words that make her lose all sense of anything except how it feels to be with him, how love changes everything – turns a pile of fabric into _comfort_ and space in a closet into _pure bliss_.

When Stiles rolls to Lydia's other side and lies next to her on the floor, he takes her hand without delay. In pale golden light, housed by ocean blue walls, they watch cloud-like shadows float across the ceiling and listen to the swelling rhythm of each other's inhales and exhales. It's serenity in the middle of a summer day, and it _is_ possible...even in a place like Beacon Hills – all because they are _together._

After a while, Stiles squeezes Lydia's hand. She knows he wants to ask her something, so she looks at him.

"You remembered that night at the beginning of senior year...when I told you about the last memory I had of my mom. Didn't you?"

"The hoodie gave it away... Huh?"

"Yeah. It's funny you should remember that today."

She waits in silent anticipation.

"I went for a drive this morning. I haven't done that in _so long_...you know...just for the hell of it, 'cause I was always trying to keep from overusing the Jeep. Now that it's rebuilt, I thought... Why not?"

"How was it?"

"It was great. The whole time, I kept thinking of how happy my mom would be to know that it's running as well as it did when she drove it."

She thinks she knows what he is about to say, and the notion makes her smile grow.

"Do you remember when you said that you believed I had more memories of her?"

"Yes."

"You were right. I had a memory of my mom...and it was a really good one."

"Tell me," she urges him, bringing their joined hands to her sternum.

He took a breath. "I must have been about...six years old. It was early one morning in the summer. We were in the driveway, and my mom was changing the oil in the Jeep. I was asking her a million questions...as usual, about what she was doing and why. She was _so_ patient with me – not just answering, but like...really explaining everything. When she was done, we got in the truck. She sat in the passenger's seat so I could pretend to drive. She told me I could take her anywhere in the world, and to me, it was a no-brainer... Right? I immediately decided we're going to New York."

"So you could see the Mets play," Lydia elaborated for him.

"Exactly," he grinned. "I could barely see over the wheel, my feet weren't even close to the pedals, but I was completely invested in this imaginary trip we were going on." The color of his eyes glows with emotion when he resumes, "Lydia, I could almost see her sitting there...smiling at me. Her whole face would light up when she smiled. It was contagious...like yours," he remarks, turning on his side and reaching out for her.

She kisses the pads of his fingers as they trace her upturned lips.

"I remember telling her that she was the coolest mom because she drove a truck, and she knew how to fix it when something was wrong. She told me I could learn too...she and my dad would teach me, and that if I wanted it, the Jeep would be mine someday. She hoped I'd have it for a long time, and she promised that we would always be connected by it...because it was her first truck too."

Lydia can see happy tears leaking from his eyes, and she sits up, pulling him into a hug. "Stiles... I'm so glad you remembered. I wanted this for you so badly."

"It really does feel like getting a part of her back...just like you said it would." He holds her tighter, dropping kisses on her shoulder. "And...like so many good things in my life, I'd have never of had this experience if it wasn't for you...if you hadn't helped me get the Jeep fixed...if you hadn't helped me hang on to the hope that I'd remember her again. I'm so grateful for you, for everything we are together."

"So am I. It just keeps getting better between us. Doesn't it?"

"It does." Arching back to make eye contact, he runs his fingers through her hair. "Hey, Lyds?"

"Yeah?"

"What are my eyes telling you right now?"

She pensively quirks her mouth and makes a show of studying him, even though she already has the answer to his question at the tip of her tongue. "That we should probably get going...'cause you're hungry," she jokes, and he laughs. "But mostly that you love me."

"I really, _really_ do."

He gives her a kiss that matches the sincerity of his words, then rises from the floor and helps her up. While massaging her shoulders over the material of his hoodie, he asks, "Do you wanna take this with you? It gets cold at _Ruby's."_

It's not a difficult decision to make. Lydia thinks about curling up in a booth with Stiles, his hoodie and his arms wrapped around her, music playing in the background, and his beautiful eyes – alight with all the love they have for each other.

"Yes," she nods, "and if it's okay with you too, I'd like to take it with me tomorrow morning, so I can hang it in my closet."

His contented agreement comes in the form of a smile and is promptly followed by one more perfect kiss. The kind of kiss which reminds her that she is exactly where she belongs.

And it feels _so right_ to be _this_ at home with someone who affects her _so deeply_. Someone who is not just a boy. Someone whose eyes – from the first time he offered his arm, to this very moment, and all those in between – have always told her everything she needed to know.

It's the kind of day when everything falls into place. Lydia is with Stiles. She feels good. Happy. In love.


	20. Your Voice

Your voice  
It's whispering against my neck  
Your lips erase the old regrets  
Of anything...  
-Not Just a Girl by She Wants Revenge

* * *

Lydia is alone in the dark. She can't see anything. She wanders, arms outstretched in front of her...searching for something to hold on to...but coming up empty. Her heart is pounding at a furious pace. Her whole body is shuddering with tremors. She falls. Her hands and knees hit the ground. Hard. She opens her mouth to cry out, but she can't raise her voice above a whisper. The scars beneath her ribs, scars she thought had healed, are burning with pain. It hurts so badly that she can't breathe. Her eyes fill up and overflow, large droplets streaming down cheeks that are too numb to notice them.

But then, there is a voice. The only voice she needs to hear. _His voice. Stiles._

"Lydia... Baby, wake up. Come on. It's okay. It's okay."

Eyes flashing open, she jolts forward, panting for oxygen. It's still dark, but now she can feel Stiles sitting next to her, one of his hands supporting her back and the other braced on her knee.

He is talking to her with his lips pressed to the side of her temple. "Shh... It's alright. Breathe. Just breathe."

Her lungs can't fully expand. She needs him closer. She lets go of the sheet she is clutching and takes his face in her hands, magnetic energy between them pulling...until their lips meet, and she can breathe.

"Stiles. Stiles," she sobs.

"I'm here, angel. I'm right here," he reminds her in between kisses; his tenderness like the calm after a storm.

He brings her into his lap, both arms enveloping her and his skin thoroughly warming hers, but he is still not close enough. She drops her head to his shoulder, repeating his name and pressing into him. He understands – like always. His hands survey her body, massaging the nape of her neck, swooping up and down her spine. He keeps talking to her as his palm moves below her ribs, intuitively passing over her scars. The pain is gone; gentle sound of his voice and familiar touch of his hands, soothing all of the hurt away.

When Lydia's inhales and exhales even out, he smooths her hair back and kisses her again. She can feel his thumbs gingerly swiping across her cheekbones; her face still dampened with the tears she shed in her nightmare. _Not a nightmare,_ something...else.

Stiles reaches to flick on the bedside lamp, and they both blink as their eyes gradually adapt to the light.

They are in his room. She remembers now. They had spent the day together. A blissful day, under sunny skies. They drove east to King Springs and had a picnic by Lake Trescowe. They talked for hours in the shade of a weeping willow tree, its swaying branches trailing all the way down to the grassy field that surrounded them. In the evening, they dropped off the Jeep and walked to the Sheriff's Station to bring Noah dinner. They stayed to help file the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk. Before they left, he gave each of them a hug and promised to treat them to breakfast on his next day off. Hand in hand, Lydia and Stiles took the long way home, all the while watching the sky change colors from amber to indigo as the sun set. They dragged their tired feet up the porch steps and into the darkened house. Without bothering to put any lights on, they kissed their way into Stiles's bedroom, groping for each other and the walls for balance. Then, they stripped down to their underwear and crawled into bed early. Shortly after, they peacefully drifted into slumber.

Lydia glances at the clock on the nightstand. It's only 11:15 p.m., which means she couldn't have been asleep for much more than an hour. She hugs Stiles a bit tighter, then leans her forehead against his, marveling at the solace his proximity provides.

"Are you alright now?"

"Yeah. I was just really scared."

"I know. I felt the way you were shaking," he says as he rubs little circles into her hip. "That must have been some nightmare."

"I don't think that's what it was."

"What do you mean?"

She tilts back to make eye contact. "It felt real...like a memory. I couldn't see or hear anything, but there was something about it." She recognizes the frustrated inflection in her tone when she adds, "I don't get why this time _,_ I came up with _so few_ details. What's different about _this_ memory?"

"Try to relax. Okay?"

"I can't. I need to get it back."

She can see the unguarded concern in him. It's written all over his face; brows pinched together, half-frown on his mouth, and somber eyes that are affectionately focused on hers.

"But this has never happened before. You haven't come out of a memory until you were ready... Right? There might be a reason your mind is resisting it. Maybe it's too much. Maybe you shouldn't push yourself."

"Stiles, I have to try," she insists. Then she pauses, combing her fingers through his hair. "I'm sure it has to do with you...which means it can't be all bad, and I want to remember everything about us."

"I want that too...but I also don't want you to be afraid."

"I want this more than I'm afraid of it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am."

"Alright," he nods. "What can I do to help?"

"Will you hold me?"

"Of course I will," he replies with an extra note of softness.

"That's all I need."

He kisses her forehead and carefully lays her down. "You want the light on or off?" he asks.

"Off."

He twists around, she hears the click of the switch, and the room goes pitch black. She feels Stiles settle next to her; arms drawing her into his chest, head ducking down so he can stamp a kiss at the pulse point on her neck.

"I don't think this is fair though. My part is _way_ too easy," he chuckles.

She smiles and snuggles closer. "Your part is everything," she amends, placing her hand over his heart.

"You ready?"

"Yeah," she answers through an unsteady breath.

"It's okay, Lyds. I've got you."

"Don't let go."

"I won't. You're safe with me. I promise," he tells her...

And she remembers.

 _She remembers a night when she was lost in the woods, and Stiles helped her find her way..._

* * *

It was too dark to see clearly...but she remembers a sound – a voice in the distance, one that was familiar, that had spoken to her before, risen above a flurry of music and conversation to claim her attention. And it was speaking to her again.

"I just need you to find her. Alright? _Please,_ just...just find her."

Lydia instinctively sought to get closer, but the voice got farther and farther away.

She remembers her arms, outstretched into dense fog, aimed in the direction of the voice...as though she could touch its resonating vibrations, latch onto it like a lifeline, and let it lead her to the light.

Against the roughness of dry leaves and jagged undergrowth, she struggled to walk. Her legs and feet were numb with cold, significantly hindering her movements. When she tried to hasten her steps, she tripped. She remembers the way her body tensed as she lurched forward and tumbled to the ground. She landed on her hands and knees, damp soil absorbing the brunt of the impact. A searing pain throbbed along her left side, below her ribs. Her next breaths came in abbreviated gasps as her elbows started to buckle and her body sunk nearer the earth. She was so tired, so cold, so _lost._ What little she could see was blurred by the anguish-induced mist in her eyes. Her lips trembled with defeat, and then suddenly...they stilled.

 _Something_ – a force she couldn't understand – something tugged, encouraging her to press on, to find the voice. The voice of a boy that awakened hope in her heart.

Lydia stood up; her legs shaky but determined. Step by step, one sore foot in front of the other, she continued. The path was rutted and winding, and she stumbled several times, but she kept going until...

There were lights, blinding bright, and she heard _him_ again.

"Lydia!"

She blinked, and he came into focus. _Stiles._ He was standing a few yards away from her; eyes wide, jaw slackened, hands shoved into his pockets. She remembers feeling the same tugging sensation that had motivated her in the woods, and she took one more step towards him. She blinked again, and the rest of her surroundings, which had been obscured by a fuzzy haze, were refined to pristine clarity. With her mind no longer clouded by confusion, Lydia became abruptly aware of how exposed she was.

She was naked, shivering in the chilly night air. _Vulnerable._

To make matters worse, there was a bunch of clueless men standing around, gaping at her like they had seen a ghost, instead of a girl in need of some respite from the cold.

 _"Well..."_ she called out, waving her arms in exasperation. "Is anyone gonna get me a coat?"

Stiles was the first to react, grasping for his father, Sheriff Stilinski's jacket. But, as if he had just been bested in a grueling tug of war, Stiles lost his balance and fell to the pavement. Lydia remembers glaring at him with a mixture of confounded impatience and mild amusement while she self-consciously wrapped her arms around herself. He quickly but spastically recovered; whirlwind of flailing limbs and crunching gravel as he scrambled to get up and rush to her side.

By then, Sheriff Stilinski was already holding his jacket out to her, but Stiles came between them, shrugging out of his flannel and offering it with an apologetic expression.

His eyes were averted at first, but they met with hers when he said, "Here, this um... This might work better."

She turned her back and let him help her into it. The sleeves of his shirt extended far beyond her fingertips and the hem reached the mid-point of her thighs, yet it felt like it had been made for her. As she fastened the buttons and rolled up the cuffs, Lydia couldn't help but wonder how something so soft could feel so solid too, like woven steel; a barrier, protecting her from elements which had been assaulting her for...well, she had no idea how long. It felt like a lifetime.

Slowly, she faced Stiles again. She remembers how his hands shook when he reached out to adjust the collar and how they steadied when he placed them on her upper arms.

Nerves on edge, she flinched like a wounded animal.

Stiles didn't let go, but he also didn't push further. His hold remained unchanged; gentle and unassuming. "Hey, it's gonna be okay, Lydia. You're safe with me. I promise."

His voice was strong and certain. She wanted to believe him. He made it seem easy, and she wasn't used to that...but she liked it.

Lydia remembers that this was the first promise Stiles ever made to her. And he has kept it – without fail, no matter the circumstance. _She has always been safe with him._

She followed his eyes as he glanced down at her bare feet. They were dirty and bruised and aching at the soles.

"Maybe you should sit down," he suggested.

She pursed her lips and gave him a nod.

Stiles looked behind him, where his father was waiting. "Dad?"

"Yeah, come on you two," he answered, ticking his head towards his squad car.

Stiles moved one hand to Lydia's back, and that time, she didn't flinch. With the lightest amount of pressure at her shoulder blades, he led her to the vehicle. He waited for her to get in the back seat, then closed the door and went to the trunk. Sheriff Stilinski sat behind the wheel and started the engine.

In seconds, heat was blaring from the vents, and Stiles had slid in next to her from the passenger's side with a duffel bag. She watched with crinkled brows as he unzipped it and tore open a package of men's crew socks.

"Cold feet are the worst... Huh?" he commented as he handed her a pair.

She accepted them with a smile of silent gratitude and slipped them on without hesitation. They were too big for her, of course, but she didn't care. It was enough that they were clean and dry. They felt like comfort. Letting her eyes fall shut, she relished in the warmth that was traveling through her body. Oddly enough, it seemed to originate from the inside and work its way outward.

When she reopened her eyes, Stiles was unfolding a heavy blanket and draping it over her legs. It surprised her at first, how close he was, but she found that it didn't bother her. Not even a little.

"How's that?" he asked, cheeks shading to a rosy hue.

"Better," she whispered.

His mouth twitched into a smile. "Good."

They stared at each other for a moment, then Sheriff Stilinski turned around to get their attention.

"Lydia, I'm going to get in touch with your parents."

"Thank you, Sheriff."

He gave her a kind smile, then directed his attention to Stiles. "Son, a word..."

Stiles narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but dutifully replied, "Sure, Dad."

The sheriff exited the car, but Stiles lingered. Lydia remembers the vigilant way he regarded her, as though he was afraid she might vanish.

"I'll just be a minute. Don't go anywhere," he instructed.

"Where would I go?" she questioned, deliberately trying to suppress how much his attentiveness was getting to her.

"I dunno... That's kind of the problem."

She wasn't used to that either – a boy expressing such apparent concern for her. It was different – nice, but also fairly intimidating because Stiles was making her aware of a lot of things...none of which she was prepared to deal with just then.

"Well, if you think I'm that much of a flight risk...maybe you should lock the doors."

Although she had been striving to come across as sarcastic and confidently flippant, the quiver in her voice betrayed her – because the truth was...Lydia was just as uncertain as Stiles appeared to be. She didn't know what happened to her. The last thing she recalled was getting out of her hospital bed with the intention of taking a shower. There was nothing in her memory to account for how she ended up in the woods nor any of the time in between.

"Lydia, I didn't mean—"

"I'm serious, Stiles. Lock the doors." Her eyes welled up as she spoke. She didn't want him to see that, but for some reason she couldn't find it in herself to look away from him.

"Okay," he agreed. There was no sign of judgement in his eyes – only compassion, and it put her slightly more at ease.

She watched as he stepped out into the night, unwelcome draft of cold air sneaking into the car before he closed the door behind him.

After that, it was quiet. Perhaps _too quiet_ because Lydia remembers that she could practically hear her own heartbeat. Her apprehension began to climb, and her hand reflexively moved to her left side, which was tingling with pain again. As she shifted her position to ease the tension on her wound, the flashing light from an ambulance that was parked nearby caught her eye and triggered a bombardment of unpleasant thoughts. Thoughts of wandering in the woods, of misguided steps in high heels over a field of grass, of frigid winter air nipping at her uncovered skin and a primal kind of fear tingling below it. Thoughts of a terrified voice calling her name and yelling for her to _RUN,_ and of a monster with callous red eyes lunging at her from the shadows. She never knew red could burn so cold.

Lydia remembers tightly squeezing her eyes, as if it would draw a curtain on the horror show that had become her life, but it didn't help. She felt as though she was teetering on the edge of a towering precipice, staring down into a vast abyss.

But Stiles pulled her back to the light.

She hadn't even heard the door reopen but somehow, she knew he was beside her – before he touched her shoulder, before he even called her name.

"Lydia?"

She looked at him, stunned by the influence of his presence. "Huh?"

"Are you hurting?" he asked, motioning towards her hand, which was still clutching her side.

"I'm fine," she lied.

He saw through it. Observing her skeptically, his mouth quirked to one side.

"Alright, it hurts," she begrudgingly acknowledged.

"I should get one of the medics."

He started to reach for the door handle, but she grabbed his elbow. She didn't want him to leave again. Things weren't as terrifying when Stiles was with her. She wanted him to stay and talk to her.

 _"No,"_ she refused, internally grimacing at the desperate noise that escaped the back of her throat. "It's really not that bad," she attempted to cover. "I just need a minute...and anyway, they're going to examine me again at the hospital."

"Okay," he conceded, sliding a fraction of an inch closer to her, "but if it gets any worse, you have to tell me."

She didn't answer.

"Lydiaaa...come on. You can't mess around with this."

"Fine, I will," she grumbled, reluctantly letting go of him.

He sighed and dug into his pocket for his phone. "I'm gonna text Allison and Scott, let them know you're with me."

She remembers his hands, thumbs vigorously jabbing at the screen as he tapped out a message. It was the complete opposite of how they had barely grazed along her skin when he helped her into his shirt. She watched him hit _Send_ and shove the device into his pocket before roughly rubbing his hands over his face. Again, the complete opposite of the tender way they had held her arms when he told her that she was safe with him.

They hadn't spent a lot of time together, but Lydia had already noticed the contrast between Stiles's overall comportment and how he interacted with her. For the most part, he was a bundle of dramatic gesture and movement, but on the few occasions when he touched her, he was always so soft. She didn't know boys could be like that...but she liked it. She thought maybe trusting him could be as easy as he made it seem, so she decided to test the waters.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened to me?"

He stopped thumping his index finger on his bicep and cautiously met her gaze. "You...uh... You don't remember anything?"

She immediately sensed that he was withholding. There was a lot of that going around; every question leading to another question, rather than an answer. It bothered her more than she wanted to admit, but she couldn't hold her tongue.

 _"Would I be asking if I did?"_ she snapped.

No sooner had the words left her mouth, than she felt the icy sting of regret lashing her across the face. Stiles didn't deserve that. She knew it, and her stomach screwed into a knot while she awaited his response.

There was a brief silence, after which he replied, "No, I guess not. It's just... I can't even imagine what you've been through, and I don't want to bring up things that might...upset you."

He bit his lip, keeping his eyes on her. Lydia remembers the hurt she saw in them. It was easy to recognize; she had seen it before. Apologizing wasn't something she was accustomed to doing, but for the first time, she really wanted to.

Still, it was daunting. "Stiles, I shouldn't of— I didn't mean..." She tried and failed to maintain eye contact.

"It's okay."

"No, it isn't. You're always so..."

She took a breath and gathered enough courage to look at him. There was something indicative of patience and understanding in him; its aura emerging through irises that glowed like sunlight on the horizon following the longest and darkest night of the year. Lydia remembers thinking that she didn't deserve his kindness, and it made her chest ache in an unfamiliar way.

"Why are you always so nice to me?" she inquired with bewilderment.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Wh—I" he swallowed nervously. "Because...I like you, and... I care about you."

"I guess that makes you an exception," she remarked without thinking, instantly shocked by her own self-deprecating tone.

Consequently, she felt another unwanted batch of tears forming. As she fought to contain them, she wondered what was happening to her, how a few minutes alone with this boy...and his piercing brown eyes...and shy smile...could begin to dissolve her fortress of well-cultivated defenses like snow on a sunny day.

"Lydia—"

"Never mind. I don't know why I said that."

"I do...but it's not true."

She was about to ask how he could claim to know that, but then she remembered what he confessed at the Winter Formal...

 _Lydia, I've had a crush on you since the third grade. And I know that somewhere...inside that cold, lifeless exterior there's an actual human soul. And I'm also pretty sure that I'm the only one who knows how smart you really are._

Those words and _the way_ he articulated them told her that Stiles had been paying attention to her for far longer than she could have anticipated. They told her that not only did he see parts of her that no one else did – he liked what he saw.

"A lot of people care about you..." he resumed, "Allison, Scott, your parents... We were all so worried. We've been looking for you everywhere these past two days and..."

 _Two days._ Pressing her lips together, she suffocated a whimper. She remembers actively working to recover her rapidly dwindling composure. She lifted a hand to push her hair away from her face, only to find that her fingers had become ensnared by a mess of tangled curls and dry leaves. She recoiled with embarrassment, dropping her hand to her lap and cringing when she caught sight of herself in the rear-view mirror.

"Two days?" she said out loud, her hand compulsively returning to her hair.

"Uh...yeah. Two _very long_ days," he specified. "Can I um... Can I help you with that?"

She nodded, spellbound by the softness of his voice.

"So...you know..." he went on, carefully removing the leaves and tossing them aside, one at a time, as he spoke to her, "if you're on edge, it's totally understandable...because obviously you've been through something traumatic. No one expects you to just brush it all off...especially not me. Okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"And you know what else?"

"What?" she exhaled, scarcely enough air in her lungs to project a single hushed syllable.

"You're strong...and you're going to heal."

"What if I don't?"

"Lydia, you will. I know it."

His hand began to reach for hers, but his phone buzzed, and he stopped, politely excusing himself as he read a new text message.

"That was Allison. She's going to meet you at the hospital."

"Thanks...for keeping in touch with her."

"You're welcome," he smiled, palm of his hand ever so lightly skimming the side of her face as he liberated one last leaf from her hair.

She felt a fluttering in her stomach; one so intense that it caught her off-guard. She had never experienced anything like it. The sensation made her shudder...almost imperceptibly...but Stiles noticed.

"Are you warm enough?" he checked.

"You mean...now that I've got some clothes on?" she replied, anxious to lighten the mood so she didn't feel so overwhelmed. "Yeah."

He laughed timorously. "Sorry about before...by the way. I'm not so good with blood or open wounds. Seeing you hurt..." he explained, pointing towards her side, "made me kind of queasy."

"So...it wasn't because you saw me naked," she teased.

"I... I didn't— Okay, I _saw_...but I wasn't _looking_... Well, I was looking at you but not like _that_. You know 'cause that would be like completely inappropriate and..."

He flushed deep pink, and it made her smile. There was something incredibly endearing about the bashful way he rambled. She didn't want to make him uneasy though, especially not when he had gone out of his way to make her as comfortable as possible.

She nudged the side of his thigh with her knee. "Relax. I'm kidding."

"Oh...right. I knew that. I totally knew that," he asserted with mock conviction, nodding repeatedly and scratching at the nape of his neck.

Stiles reclined against the seat, and Lydia's eyes fixed on his profile. She couldn't help but notice how cute he was; eyelashes so beautiful that no boy should be allowed to have them, sweet slope of his nose, pouty lips that fidgeted almost as much as the rest of him. She continued to watch him as he set his phone on the seat and crossed his arms over his chest. She thought about what it felt like to dance with him at the formal. His arms were strong but not possessive, his body warm and pleasantly willing to shape around hers, his shoulder the perfect place to rest her forehead. His hands had sought permission; they didn't wander, didn't take _more_. He just held her...in a way she never even knew she wanted to be held.

She wondered if she would ever feel that again. It seemed too much to hope for, so she didn't dare think about it for too long. Instead, Lydia decided that she could settle for being able to talk to Stiles. Ever since his voice guided her out of the woods, she had the distinct impression that something had changed inside of her. She wasn't sure how or why, but she wanted to figure it out.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry too."

He gave her a blank stare.

"The dance... I shouldn't have—"

"I told you the other night, I understand," he interrupted.

"Well I don't," she confessed.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know why I left. I thought I could— I just wanted..." She shook her head in frustration. She felt as exposed as she did when she was naked outside, but she couldn't silence herself. "I don't know what I wanted. Closure maybe..."

"We don't have to talk about this now."

"I want to."

"Okay..." He drew his left leg up onto the seat, turning his whole body towards her. His expression was curious and receptive.

She hugged herself, as if it would help keep her emotions in while still allowing the words to come out. Stiles was listening to her so intently, and she wasn't sure if it would last, but she wanted to make the most of it.

"I should have told you that night... I know I did an awful job of showing it...but I was having a good time with you. _I was._ And if I hadn't been such a... What was it you called me?"

"I didn't mean—"

"A nitwit... That was it. Wasn't it?"

"I said you were _pretending_ , not that you _are_ one."

"Whatever...it doesn't matter. You were right. Maybe if I hadn't been such a nitwit, everything that came after...none of it would have happened."

"Lydia, listen to me. What happened to you was _not_ your fault. Not at all."

"Then..." she paused; raw grief rough like sandpaper on her tongue.

"Then what?"

"Then why do I feel like it is?"

He sighed empathetically. "Because you're hurting...but it won't always be like this. You just have to focus on taking care of yourself...on healing. You'll get there...and in the meantime, if there's _anything_ I can do to make things easier for you...all you have to do is ask."

She remembers thinking that Stiles must have the purest and most generous heart of any boy she had ever known.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

He infused so much sincerity in that simple assurance, that Lydia thought she might have to battle another upsurge of tears. Stiles seemed to know she wasn't ready to do that.

"And for the record, I was having a good time with you too, but...if you'd rather I'd be annoyed at you..."

"No," she smiled, mesmerized by his ability to brighten the atmosphere with the cadence of his voice. "I wouldn't."

"Good...'cause I'm not. You're here, and you're safe, and that's all that matters."

He reached for her hand again, but the door popped open, startling them both.

Sheriff Stilinski hunched down to speak to them. "Good news, Lydia, the ambulance is ready for you."

She felt the weight of Stiles's regard on her as she glanced warily at his father.

Before she could formulate a response, Stiles stepped in. "Isn't she going with us?"

"Stiles—"

"Dad, come on... It's like thirty degrees out there and—" Bumping her knee with his and shooting her a look that said: _Go with it,_ he cajoled, "You just warmed up... Didn't you, Lydia?"

She played along, doing her best to appear innocent. "Yes, I did."

"Well then...there's no sense in making her go back outside in the freezing cold to get in an ambulance with a couple of strangers when—"

"Alright, alright," the sheriff caved. "Would you rather go with us, Lydia?"

"Yes, sir. If it's not too much trouble."

His blue eyes shifted focus from her...to Stiles...then back to her. They glinted with the light of comprehension when he answered, "No, it's not. I'd be happy to drive you."

"That's why you're the best, Pops," Stiles declared with a proud grin. "Oh, also... Could you shut the door? You're letting all the cold air in."

"My son, the King of Subtlety," he chuckled, rolling his eyes as he closed the door.

While Sheriff Stilinski waved off the ambulance and walked to the driver's side, Lydia channeled the relief she felt and took a leap of faith.

She blindly searched for Stiles's hand and clasped it firmly.

She remembers the _thank you_ forming on her tongue, but the smile on her lips was so insistent that it remained unspoken. Stiles smiled back at her...like he could hear the words she wanted to say, and it made her heart beat a little faster. She pulled the blanket he gave her a bit tighter around herself and pretended that she wasn't wishing it was his arms instead.

"You sure you're warm enough?"

She shrugged, still speechless.

He lifted his left arm toward her. "Do you want me to— Is it okay if I...?"

She leaned into him, and he put his arm around her...for the very first time. It was as natural and easy as believing that she was safe with him.

The pent-up tension finally left her. She remembers breathing in deeply and the unique scent that filled her lungs. It brought back memories of happier days, of a younger carefree version of herself, and of an all too brief moment – dancing under the glittering reflections of a disco ball.

Lydia was implicitly aware of how foolish she was being, that she shouldn't let herself form an attachment with Stiles. He was too good and too sweet for someone like her, but she didn't care. She wanted _too good_ and _too sweet_ in her life...if only just for a single car ride, and that wasn't too much to hope for.

As Sheriff Stilinski drove them away from the Beacon Hills Preserve, Stiles was especially quiet. He seemed different – relaxed and content to hold her, just like when they slow danced.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm counting on you to get me up to date on everything I've missed at school. I don't plan on falling behind in any of my classes," she informed him.

Their faces mere inches apart, he looked into her eyes; his brows were raised and mouth upturned into a crooked grin. She knew he heard the unabridged version of her statement – the days she wasted, pretending to be a nitwit, had come to an end.

"You got it, Lydia," he affirmed.

She remembers thinking that he sounded proud of her, and she liked that _a lot._

As he recounted a detailed narrative of everything that happened over the last few days, she could tell he was still smiling. She listened to him, urged him to keep talking by making the occasional comment or posing a question whenever he paused – because she wanted to hear his voice. Because the more he kept talking, the more she felt like things would be okay. Because there was something about Stiles that made her realize...

He was not just a boy. He was special. Someone with an astonishing ability to get through to her, who conveyed care in everything he did. Someone who thought she was smart and beautiful, who seemed to understand her on a level that no one else had, and who hadn't been afraid to call her out on the useless lie she was living.

Stiles was someone who was quickly becoming a friend. And that was a very comforting _new_ reality.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia is still in the dark, but Stiles has both of his arms securely wrapped around her. She is warm, and safe, and at home; her hand still resting over the heart of the boy she loves.

"Stiles..." she breathes.

"Are you alright?" his loving voice asks.

"Yes. I remember now."

"What was it?"

"It was after...um...after..." It's still too difficult to say sometimes, so she takes his hand and places it on her scar. "When I went missing from the hospital."

"Oh." He is motionless for several seconds, but then his chest expands with an inhale. "I guess that explains why you had so little to go on," he deduces. "You were fugue."

"Yeah...until I heard your voice," she clarifies, reaching up to touch his face.

She feels him lift his head from the pillow they are sharing. "What?" he gasps.

"I heard you when I was in the woods. You were talking to someone. You said, _I just need you to find her._ Do you remember that?"

Beneath her palm, his jaw slackens with surprise, parted lips pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist before he answers, "Yes."

"Who were you talking to?"

"Scott."

"I only heard you. I heard you, and I followed your voice. That's how I found my way back to the road. That's where I found you."

"Lydia, really?"

"Yes," she replies, nudging his nose with hers. "I was so cold...and tired...and lost...and then I fell. I was so close to giving up, but it was like you wouldn't let me. You've always been able to get through to me, to make me feel safe and cared about. On top of that, you saved my life _twice..._ in less than a week. How am I ever going to thank you?"

"You just did." he enlightens her, lips gently brushing against hers as he speaks. "And as for saving you twice in a week...well, it's nothing you haven't done for me. Actually, you saved me twice in _one night_...first bringing me home and then stopping a Ghost Rider with the power of your voice."

"I _did_ do that. Didn't I?" she smiles.

"Yeah, you did."

"I had to. I couldn't lose you, Stiles. I love you."

He kisses her...again and again, making her heart swell with each one. "You know...it's a month since the first time you said that to me."

"You're right. It is," she recalls fondly. "It felt even better than I ever imagined...to finally be able to say it out loud. I'm just sorry it took me so long."

"Don't be. I knew how you felt... You showed me in so many ways, and you said it when you were ready. That's all I ever wanted."

He is _so sweet_ and _so good;_ Lydia thinks she could cry. But she doesn't. She is too happy and too enamored by the way he is holding her. His body feels like it was made to hold hers.

"It's also a month since the first time we were together," he points out.

Her cheeks blossom with heat at the cherished memory.

"I think about that night a lot," he tells her. "I never knew it could be like that – that I could feel _so much_ all at once."

"Me neither...and it's been like that ever since. Hasn't it?"

"It sure has."

His hands begin to wander, palms cupping her shoulder blades, thumbs toying with the straps of her lace bralette.

"Stiles..."

"Mmm..."

"I think we should celebrate," she proposes, fingers stroking the waistband of his boxers.

"Oh, you do...huh?" he teases. "What _specifically_ do you have in mind?"

Lydia rolls onto her back, keeping her arms locked around his neck to encourage him above her, and Stiles willingly follows her lead.

They make love into the early morning hours. Just like the first time – so slow it almost aches, her body charged with the spark of electric passion, every one of his thrusts delighting her with the promise of _more._ He touches her everywhere, kisses her too; his lips mashing words with caresses that make her stomach tug with need for him and her heart feel too big for her chest. It's pure bliss. He takes her so high, she never wants to come down; the all-encompassing breadth of his love better than anything she has ever experienced. She effortlessly responds to his cues. She knows what makes him feel good, and she gives it to him freely. Affection guiding every move she makes, she anticipates his shudders and moans; each of them a reminder that Stiles is _right there_ with her – so happy and so in love.

When they are both spent – pulses raging, lungs rapidly contracting, and bodies cloaked in a blanket of euphoria, Stiles winds his arms around Lydia. He holds her _so close_ and _so tight_ that she can't help but be mindful of every beat of his heart, every intake of breath. His arms have grown stronger in the past three years, but they are still not possessive. His body is still warm and eager to shape around hers, his shoulder still the perfect place to rest her forehead.

He whispers against the skin of her neck; offering reverent _I love yous,_ using terms like _forever_ and _always,_ and making plans with her for their future...both near and distant. With every word, her list of regrets fades further into the mist.

"Are you tired?" he eventually asks.

"No, just keep talking," she says. "I wanna hear your voice. I love the sound of your voice."


	21. Your Mind

Your mind  
It makes me wanna know you more  
So tell me what we have in store  
Tell me everything...  
-Not Just a Girl by She Wants Revenge

* * *

It's the last day of June. Lydia is in her bedroom, getting ready to go out with Stiles. He is downstairs with Prada. From the sound of it, they are playing with the toy he got her a few weeks earlier; symphony of a jingling bell, Prada's excited barks, and Stiles's beautiful laughter filling the entire household.

Lydia smiles. If she wasn't so happy that Prada formed such a strong attachment to Stiles, she might be jealous that her little Papillon would rather be skidding across the hardwood floors in the living room, chasing after a ball, than stretched out on Lydia's bed like a princess.

She finishes pinning the front section of her hair to the crown of her head and turns her attention to her aqua-colored jewelry box. Lifting the lid, she pokes through a small collection of studs and dainty dangling earrings, none of which compliment her outfit. Quirking her mouth to one side, she pushes the lid down and opens the drawer. Inside, her bracelets are neatly arranged as usual, but beside them, there is an empty space – one that makes her stomach sink and her eyebrows cinch together.

 _Something is missing._

Lydia quickly removes the bracelets and lays them out on the dresser. Her fingers return to the drawer, carefully exploring every inch of its satin lining. Much to her dismay, they come up with... _nothing._

She pulls the drawer out of its track and feels inside the frame of the jewelry box. _It's not there._

Hastily, she refills the drawer and pops it back into place. As her eyes scan the surrounding area, Stiles enters the room and comes to stand behind her. From the corner of her eye, Lydia can see his reflection in the mirror.

"So... Prada is passed out on the couch," he informs her as he presses his lips to the side of her temple. "She'll probably sleep the whole time we're out."

"Uh...that's good," Lydia answers after a short delay.

"You almost ready?" he asks, gently massaging her shoulders.

"Yeah...um...almost." Her hands sweep along the vintage runner that is draped across her dresser. _It's not there either._

Her heartbeat is a little too fast, so she takes a breath, opens the top drawer of her dresser, and starts rummaging through her neatly folded array of camisoles and undergarments. She tells herself the drawer may have been opened last time, that perhaps it fell inside.

Stiles is observing her curiously. "You forget something?" he teases, long fingers dipping into the neckline of her dress as if he is checking for her bra.

"Very funny," she comments dryly while nudging him with her hip.

His hands go still. "Lyds, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," she shrugs.

"Hey, this is me you're talking to. I know you. Something's wrong – I can hear it in your voice, see it on that beautiful face of yours... I can even feel how tense you are," he points out.

Lydia closes the dresser and lets her arms drop to her sides in surrender. She can't argue with him. Stiles knows her better than anyone ever has...and she wouldn't have it any other way.

"It's silly," she quietly confesses, finally lifting her gaze to make eye contact with him in the mirror.

He pulls a face – the one that reminds her there is nothing she could say to him that he would brush off as silly or insignificant. Hands firmly planted on her shoulders, Stiles turns her around to face him. "Tell me," he coaxes.

She sighs and hooks her index fingers through the belt loops on his jeans, towing him a bit closer. The closer Stiles is, the easier it is to ignore the nagging part of her that insists she is making a big deal out of nothing.

"I can't find my sea glass. I always keep it in my jewelry box, but it's not there...and I don't know where else it could be," she explains. "I was _so sure_ that I put it back the last time I had it out. I know it's just a piece of glass...except it's more than that to me. It's from Beryl Cove...the day we drove up there to see the sunrise, and that day was _so perfect_. I just..." she trails off as she watches Stiles.

His eyelids fall shut, and he is scrunching up his face – the way that he does when one of his plans goes awry.

"Stiles?"

"I almost made it..."

"What do you mean?"

He slowly opens his eyes. "Lydia, it's not lost," he assures her, moving his hands to the sides of her neck and stroking her jaw with his thumbs. "I took it."

"What—When?"

"Last week...before we left for San Francisco."

Her eyes widen with confusion. "Why would you do that?"

He sucks in his lower lip and releases it with a response. "Come here... Come sit with me, and I'll explain."

Taking her hand, he guides her to the tufted bench at the foot of her bed. They sit down, facing each other. Stiles keeps hold of her hand, bringing it to his lips and apologetically kissing her knuckles. Lydia guesses she should be annoyed at him, but she isn't. She is certain he must have had a good reason for taking the sea glass without asking, so she smiles her unspoken forgiveness and lovingly runs her fingertips across his forehead wondering what that incomparable mind of his has been up to.

"Okay, I know we agreed not to do the whole anniversary thing...with gifts or some kind of stuffy formal date...and I'm good with it 'cause that's not who we are...and honestly, there are _a lot_ of anniversaries between us...so I'd probably be bankrupt by Christmas," he rambles into a joke.

She laughs quietly while fondly shaking her head at his sardonic wit.

He gives in to a crooked grin but, following an emotional flutter of his lashes, it begins to fade, signaling to Lydia that what he wants to say is important.

"Still, I really wanted to give you something...something to show you how much you mean to me...how much what we have means to me."

He looks so sweet, so unexpectedly vulnerable that she can't help but reassure him. She tightens her grasp on his hand. "You show me all the time. Every single day."

"I hope I do...but after that day at the cove, I had this idea, and I couldn't get it out of my mind..." He slides his free hand into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.

Lydia's heart quickens, this time not for fear of having lost something but rather with excitement over what she is about to find.

"And unless I'm forgetting something," he continues, "today is just a normal day... Right?"

"Right," she whispers. _At least it was...up until now._

"So, I figured it would be okay if I..." he pauses as a full smile reshapes his mouth. "Well...I was going to give this to you tonight...but now is just as good."

When he offers the box to her with a hopeful expression, it seems more like he is handing her his heart. She reverently accepts it; butterflies in her stomach and tingling in her veins that sparks from where their fingers are touching. Lydia doesn't want to let go of his other hand, and Stiles must know it because he opens the lid for her.

The breath catches in her throat when her eyes take in the sight of a pendant – orange and blue glass in the shape of a heart, seamlessly fused to resemble a sun-kissed sky over clear ocean waters.

Her eyes flick from the pendant to his eyes, which are glistening with light and brimming with love.

"Stiles..." she exhales, heat engulfing her chest and rising to her cheeks as she realizes, "that's made from both of our pieces of sea glass, the ones we found together... Isn't it?"

"Yeah," he nods.

Hand trembling, she carefully reaches out to touch it. That is when she notices a second heart pendant behind the glass one. It's solid silver, and it's engraved with their initials, _LM + MS,_ complete with an infinity sign below...the same as the symbol they drew in the sand.

"Stiles," she repeats, "the inscription – it even looks like our handwriting. How did you...?"

"I showed the picture we took at the cove to the jeweler...the one on the corner of Ashford Street...and she copied it."

"And the sea glass..."

"It's welded together. When I asked if it was possible, she told me she'd have to test them to make sure they had the same properties. She called it some kind of coefficient."

"Shading coefficient," she fills in for him. "It's a measure of the thermal performance of glass."

"Yeah, that's it," he says, touching her cheek. "Of course you know that... You're brilliant." He kisses her forehead, then nuzzles along the side of her face, voice smooth as silk as he speaks to her. "The jeweler said the bond wouldn't hold unless the two pieces were a perfect match, and that it's super rare for that to be the case with different colored glass, but as it turns out...these are."

She lets his words set in, lets her mind process how fitting it is that these two formerly broken pieces could be permanently fused together to create one whole heart – a flawless representation of their forever kind of love.

"Do you like it?"

She arches back to look at him. "Like it? _I love it,_ " she corrects, tone hushed by heavy emotion as a single tear rolls down her cheek.

Stiles is beaming, and Lydia knows that he heard the implicit _I love you_ in her response as well. She finally lets go of his hand so she can cup his face with her palms and kiss him. She kisses him...over and over, feels him grip her waist and pull her closer. Then she hugs him, squeezes him with all the strength in her body so he knows how profoundly he has touched her. They stay like that, Lydia with her nose buried in his neck and Stiles dropping occasional kisses on her shoulder.

Eventually, she breaks from the embrace, still smiling as she takes the necklace out of the box and holds it up between them. Sunshine is streaming through the windows; it makes the sea glass flicker with the light of an eternal flame and the silver metal shine almost as brightly as Stiles's eyes.

She admires it for a moment before asking, "Will you help me?"

"Sure."

Lydia turns and lifts her hair up, and Stiles secures the chain around her neck, his hands barely grazing her skin but nevertheless igniting fireworks inside her. The pendant falls slowly into place, landing directly over her sternum. She presses her palm above it, feels her heart pulse stronger underneath it.

"I'm going to wear this all the time," she tells him, "so I'll always have you close to me."

Stiles kisses the nape of her neck, then leans his forehead there. His warm exhales delicately caress her skin as his hands curl around her hips. "I didn't ruin the surprise...by making you think you lost your sea glass?"

"No, you didn't ruin anything," she replies, turning in his arms. " _You_ make everything better," she adds before resting her head on his shoulder. Then, she directs her gaze to the pendant once more, holds it between her fingers while smoothing her thumb over the sand-polished glass. "Orange and blue..."

"Yeah, orange and blue," he echoes softly.

"Because..." she lifts her head to look into his eyes, "sometimes things you wouldn't think would be a good combination...end up turning out to be a perfect combination."

"You remember that?"

"Yes. I remembered the night you came home, but..."

"What?"

"There's a blank space. I remember sitting on the bleachers with you. I also remember when I saw...well, you know..."

"Yeah, I know," he says, tightening his arm around her.

"But in between...there was something else. Wasn't there?"

"Yeah. In between...there was just _us."_

"I wish I could remember. I've thought about it a lot in the past weeks, but I always get stuck at the same point."

"Where?"

"As soon as we set foot on the ice, I go blank."

"Maybe you need a little help." His expression is pensive as he tucks her hair behind her ear. "Why don't we ditch our plans...go ice skating instead? It might trigger your memory."

"You don't mind?"

"No, not at all. We'll be together...and today, there won't be anything to interrupt us. What could be better?" he questions, leaning closer.

"Nothing," she smiles, in anticipation of his kiss.

He presses his lips to hers, eases the pain of forgetting with the overwhelming amount of affection he communicates. She kisses him back, savors every second of it too, silently thanking whomever aligned the stars in her favor so that she can share a heartbeat and another breath with Stiles.

When he stands up and holds out his hands for her, she accepts them without hesitation. He leads her to the closet they now share. Lydia digs out her leg warmers and a creamy white cardigan. She watches Stiles peel off his tee shirt, swap it for a long-sleeved one, then grab a charcoal grey hoodie and sling it over his shoulder. Together they head downstairs, passing by the living room to check on Prada, who is still sleeping peacefully on the sofa. They exchange a smile before locking up the house and hopping into Lydia's car.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they are sitting on the bleachers at Lynbrook Ice Rink, both of them pleased to find that they are the only two people in Beacon Hills who had the impulse to go skating on a hot summer day.

Lydia had been optimistic on the short drive through town. Shades of orange and blue seemed more prevalent and more vivid; colors of an unexpectedly perfect combination were everywhere in sight. In the California poppies blooming in the square at Andrews Hill and the wings of monarch butterfly that fluttered past the windshield when they were delayed at a stop sign. In the cerulean of the cloudless sky and the saturated lapis of her dress. There were even orange and blue rainbows splashed across the dashboard, where sun rays were refracting off her pendant. Whenever she looked over at Stiles, he was smiling at her. His eyes were happy, his left hand confidently resting on her thigh, pleasant weight of it anchoring her to him. Every block closer to the rink felt like one step closer to another memory. Another memory of Stiles and all of the awe-inspiring ways he has imprinted his mark on her heart with a word...or a touch...or a glance.

But now, Lydia feels a burst of nervous energy. She stares at familiar surroundings with pursed lips while she fusses with her leg warmers. She didn't assume reclaiming her memory would be as easy as walking inside the building, however nothing is any clearer than it was before they arrived. She makes an effort to concentrate on securing her skates, but her hands won't cooperate. They clumsily fumble with the laces, until Stiles stills them with his own...because he understands her on a level which goes beyond spoken word, beyond reason; Stiles understands her on a level that goes soul deep.

He tilts her chin up. "Lyds, look at me," he tenderly instructs. "There's no pressure here... Okay? Whether you remember or not, we'll still have a great time."

She closes her eyes briefly and exhales slowly. "You're right. I just...don't want to disappoint you, if I can't—"

"Hey, you could _never_... You've been trying _so hard_ to remember everything. Do you have any idea what that does to me..." he asks with bewilderment as he takes her hand and places it over his heart, "in here?"

Her vision blurs as she waits for him to finish.

"All I want is for us to be together," he affirms, sliding his fingers between hers. "I love you, Lydia, _so much,_ and even if you never remember another thing about our past, I'll be happy just to be with you for the rest of my life."

She never ceases to be astounded by the limitless scope of his love, how it equals her adoration for him in every possible way.

"Have I told you lately...how amazing you are?" she inquires with dewy eyes and a budding smile.

Stiles instantly responds to her cue, seizing the opportunity to lighten the mood. "Hmm...not since yesterday... I don't mind hearing it again though," he winks before leaning in to kiss her cheek.

She winds her arms around him, and he eagerly reciprocates.

"It's gonna be alright," he croons. "Tell me everything you remember, and we'll take it from there."

She nods into his shoulder. It's barely sixty degrees where they are, but Lydia isn't cold. Not even a bit. She is wrapped up in Stiles, and his perpetual warmth defies the laws of science.

"We were sitting here. Allison... Allison and Scott were over there," she begins, pointing to the right.

The mist returns to her eyes as she pictures her friends; Allison, the girl who was more like a sister to her, in a flowy lace dress and a black and white striped sweater, her dark brunette hair woven into a braid that Lydia styled for her; and Scott, the boy who has become as close to her as a brother, huddled next to Allison, wearing a green shirt, black jeans, and a bashful smile. She can almost see Allison running her hands through Scott's mass of unkempt waves.

"They were...shamelessly flirting with each other," she tries to kid, but her voice cracks with emotion.

"Aww...Lydia..." He turns into her and strokes her hair.

"I miss her. I miss seeing them together."

"Me too," he replies. "Listen, if this is too much, we can stop."

"No, it's good to think of her. It makes me feel like she's not...so far away." She sighs wistfully. "This past month, there have been so many times when I wanted to talk to her...to tell her how good things are between you and me. She would have been really happy for us. I know it."

"I like to think she _is_ happy for us...that somehow she and my mom are out there, watching over us. With all the things we've seen, it doesn't seem so far-fetched... Does it?"

There is a purity in that concept which tugs at her heart. Stiles is more aware than most, of the dark side of the supernatural realm, yet his resilient mind still finds ways to deny the shadows the power they seek. He shines his light on them until they recede, gives Lydia solace...and she falls more in love with him with each passing second.

"No, it doesn't. I like it. I like it a lot."

He kisses the top of her head, and she can feel his chest swell against hers as he inhales.

"What else do you remember?"

"I was complaining that it was too cold. You offered me an extra shirt that you had in your backpack, but I said I couldn't wear it because it was orange and I was wearing blue."

Regret starts to nudge at her stomach, but Stiles gives her a reassuring squeeze. So she keeps talking, striving to focus her attention on the good, on what connected them, rather than what needlessly encouraged distance between them.

"Then, you gave me a Reese's."

"That's right. Ooh...hang on a sec..." he says, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out a package of peanut butter cups.

The gesture makes her smile; his thinly veiled excuse for loitering by the vending machines while she was choosing her skates suddenly made sense. She accepts the candy and tears open the package, listening to the distinct crinkle of the orange plastic between her fingers. Then she offers one to Stiles and takes the other for herself.

"I remember what you said to me about perfect combinations, how much it impressed me...the way your mind works."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. But instead of telling you that, I pretended to think you were referring to Allison and Scott." She shifts her gaze to the chocolate candy in her hand. "I wish I hadn't done that. _Ugh...I was such an idiot,"_ she grits out.

"Hey, watch it," he cautions her. "You're talking about the woman I love."

"Stiles—"

He puts on his resolve face; left brow arched, lips in a straight line.

She rolls her eyes but when he leans his forehead against hers, she melts into the contact.

"Seriously, it's alright," he resumes. "I'll admit, I was frustrated at first, but...then I realized something."

"What?"

"That you were just being careful with your heart."

"But I didn't need to be. Not with you."

"You didn't know that...but look at how much we've learned about each other since then, how close we are. That changes everything. It changes everything because now I know better..." He pauses to give her a chaste kiss. "Now, I know I was getting to you...even back then."

The corners of her mouth curl upwards. "You definitely were...and you still do," she remarks, touching the pendant he gave her.

"Then, there's nothing to feel bad about," he smiles before devouring his peanut butter cup.

Lydia methodically peels the paper from her Reese's, then she follows his lead, popping the entire candy into her mouth, rather than taking small bites like she did on the night in her memory. She can see how pleased Stiles is, and it makes her happy too. The last traces of regret that burden her conscience dissipate in the time it takes for the chocolate to melt on her tongue. All that remains is the salty peanut butter center and the lasting sweetness of his kiss – an undeniably perfect combination.

"Is there anything else you remember?" Stiles asks after an extended yet comfortable silence.

"Um...we got up from the bleachers and got in the rink, and that's it."

"Okay, so maybe you need to be out there. What do you think?"

"Yeah, it's worth a try."

They link digits, and together they approach the ice. Lydia hasn't skated in more than two years, not since that night, but with Stiles holding her hand, she swiftly gets her bearings. Things are already becoming more and more familiar – the bright lights bouncing off nearly every surface, the cold air rushing across her face, the blades of their skates cutting into the ice, the synchronized cadence in which she and Stiles glide together. It feels good, natural...the way everything does when she is with him.

After they take a lap in unison, he tugs on her hand, and they both come to a stop.

"Anything?"

"Not yet."

"You were by yourself for a bit. You want to try that?" he suggests.

She hesitates to answer.

"It's okay. Just...try to relax. I'll be right here," he promises.

"Right," she nods.

She backs away, keeping her eyes on Stiles and clutching his hand for as long as she can. When she lets go, she takes a breath and follows his advice. She stops _trying_ to remember. She simply feels. Her body begins to unwind; there is a serenity in the rhythmic motion of skating. As she swishes from side to side, her hand automatically moves to her pendant, and Stiles's heartfelt words resound in her mind.

 _I love you, Lydia, so much, and even if you never remember another thing about our past, I'll be happy just to be with you for the rest of my life._

Her heart races and flutters at the thought of him, at the thought of their future. There is so much to look forward to, and nothing holding her back anymore.

She feels free. She extends her arms and travels in fluid, figure-eight patterns. Her legs are strong beneath her, the fabric of her dress soft as it ripples over the skin of her thighs. Her hair whips around as she pivots and picks up momentum, then she tucks in her arms, closes her eyes...and she spins...and she spins...and she spins.

When she finishes, she instantly finds a focal point. _Stiles._ He is staring at her; brows arched, eyes wide, wondrous smile gracing his parted lips. She knows that she _has never_ and _will never_ be regarded by anyone else in a way that makes her feel _this_ loved, nor would she want to be. She can't wait to be held by him again, so she pushes off and skates towards him at full speed. Just before his arms open for her, just before she lands in his welcoming embrace – she remembers.

 _She remembers the night during sophomore year, when everything she needed was in the palm of Stiles's hand._

* * *

Lydia stood up and headed to the rink. Stiles was a few paces behind, but they stepped onto the ice together. She remembers the first strides she took. Although she hadn't skated in several years, it felt almost as natural as breathing. She remembers looking to her right, where Stiles was, and he appeared to be equally at ease. She wondered how someone who tended to be unsteady with two feet on solid dry ground could also be so assertively composed on a slick plane of ice...while balancing on four-millimeter-wide steel blades. It was an impressive sight to behold.

She remembers that he allowed a fair amount of space between them. She thought it unnecessary, a bit odd even...but when she considered their conversation just minutes earlier, she understood why he might assume it was appropriate. The notion jabbed at her stomach with surprising intensity.

She hadn't meant to be dismissive. It was obvious to her when Stiles said,

 _Okay, um...maybe orange and blue is not the best. But, you know, um...sometimes there's other things you wouldn't think would be a good combination...end up turning out to be like a perfect combination. You know? Like two people together...who nobody ever thought would be together – ever_

that he had been talking about the two of them – not Scott and Allison...like she had led him to believe she assumed.

But, in the moment, she seized up, and she couldn't curb her compulsion to deflect. She was used to dealing with boys who brazenly pursued her – eyes conspicuously ogling her body, mouths parroting stale pick-up lines and hollow compliments, all the while leaning nearer and nearer, respect for her personal space be damned. It was easy to respond to those boys because they didn't matter to her, they didn't make her feel things. She could prepare a clever retort before they even managed to utter a couple of disingenuous syllables.

What she was not prepared for was for Stiles to communicate with her in such a timid and subtle, yet clear manner. There had been such a hopeful expression on his face too, like he really wanted her to see his point of view. And it got to her. _He_ got to her...more than she was able to admit...especially on a day when the last boy she spent more than ten seconds with had scowled at her, shoved her up against a tiled wall, and forced his unkind hands on her – poking at the still very sensitive wound in her side and grabbing her wrist with the tension of a vice. Hours later, it still hurt.

As Lydia discreetly rubbed her sore wrist, her thoughts wandered down a dark path that took her to an even darker place. A place where phrases from the not so distant past like "dead weight" and "don't expect me to come running" were being hurled at her. A place where recent accusations of having a "soul-killing substance" coursing through her veins were compounded by a harshly shouted _"You ruin EVERYTHING!"._ All of it echoing in a hateful and demeaning tone which assaulted her consciousness until the noise culminated in a cacophony of bitterness and doubt. It was so loud that it made her want to scream.

But then, a soft and forgiving tenor broke her from the intrusive discord.

"Didn't you say that you hadn't skated in a while and that you were out of practice?" Stiles asked. His words weren't extraordinary, but they seemed like an oasis of kindness in the middle of a brutal desert.

She came to an abrupt snowplow stop beside him. Lydia remembers being so grateful to hear his voice that she could have leapt into his arms to hug him...and never let go.

She let herself imagine it for a fraction of a second. Then, blinking into the brightness, she replied, "Yeah... I haven't...and I am."

"Could've fooled me," he remarked.

"I could say the same to you."

He blushed, mouth twitching to minimize a grin. "Well...seeing as how we are both better at this than we thought... How about a race? One lap," he challenged.

There was no trace of annoyance or resentment in his eyes, only mischievous enthusiasm. She was struck by how willing he was to give her another chance, and she didn't want to let it pass her by.

"What are the stakes?" she asked.

"French fries, _obviously._ Loser has to buy for the rest of the semester. _"_

She laughed silently. His wager flooded her with warmth because it elicited memories of the past week. The past week in which Stiles had been catching her up on the schoolwork she missed when she was in the hospital. The past week in which the two of them had been meeting in the library during their mutual free period, or in the cafeteria at lunch...where they inadvertently made a habit of sharing their French fries, something she hoped would continue for a long time to come.

"You're on, Stilinski. Try not to fall too far behind," she teased, raising one shoulder and smiling at him.

He laughed – a vibrant, beautiful laugh – before lunging ahead without warning. She stared at him in ephemeral shock, then took off after him.

In mere seconds, they were side by side. Together, they dashed forward, playfully speeding up and slowing down as they circled the perimeter of the rink. Whenever Lydia looked at Stiles, he was smiling at her. There wasn't any part of her that could deny how good it was to see him happy.

She remembers getting so caught up in watching him that she didn't realize they had already completed a lap. She didn't even know who had won, but it didn't matter. They were just skating – free and easy, no aim other than to have fun. She couldn't recall the last time she had as much fun...especially not with a boy.

Lydia's heart raced. She wondered if it was because her endorphins were kicking in or if it was because of Stiles, but she had a strong suspicion it was _him._ She couldn't quite explain the effect he had on her. The way he treated her made her feel...special and normal at the same time.

She was buzzing and tingling with emotion. She felt as though she might burst if she didn't express herself somehow. So she did. She relaxed, stopped thinking so much, and let instinct guide her movements. She remembers extending her arms and traveling in fluid, figure-eight patterns. She remembers the strength of her legs beneath her and the gust of cold air on her skin, which was suddenly invigorating rather than uncomfortable. Her hair whipped around as she pivoted and picked up momentum, then she tucked in her arms, closed her eyes...and she spun...and she spun...and she spun.

Gradually, she drifted out of revolution, kicking one leg out behind her to round into a pirouette. When she opened her eyes, her surroundings were a blur of color, but she quickly found a focal point to steady herself. Taking a breath, she glanced at the ceiling, relieved that she hadn't made herself dizzy. Then her eyes fixed on _Stiles._..and everything else faded into the background.

She remembers the way he was staring at her; brows arched, eyes wide, mouth agape. No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her just then. It made her want to get closer to him. She felt a smile spread across her mouth as she headed in his direction. Her heart fluttered, it may have even skipped a beat or two, and she hoped it wouldn't be the last time Stiles looked at her like that.

As she decelerated, an unusual wave of shyness traveled through her. She shrugged her shoulder but the feeling lingered...until her hand reached for his, drawn by some kind of deeply rooted gravitational force.

"Well... Come on," she said, pulling him with her as she began another lap around the rink.

He welcomed the contact; his palm and fingers completely enveloped hers in a way that offset any concern she might have had about being too forward with him.

She remembers passing Allison and Scott. Scott, who happened to be making an awkward first attempt at skating. In less than one minute, he was splayed across the ice like a wobbly newborn foal – clumsy but cute.

"I think he's getting the hang of it," Stiles jested.

"Um...definitely."

"He'll be skating like you in no time," he added while reducing his velocity. "I um... I didn't know you could skate like _that,"_ he commented. _"That_ was amazing. Did you take lessons?"

She coasted, friction slowing her down enough to match his tempo. "Yeah, for a few years."

"Why did you stop?"

"A lot of reasons I guess..." She heard herself being less than honest with Stiles, and when she couldn't come up with a legitimate justification for it, she decided to revise her statement. "Actually, that's not true. There was only one reason."

"What was it?"

"My parents started pushing me to compete. They said there was no point otherwise. For months, I tried to do what they wanted...but it took all the fun out of skating. So, I quit."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You obviously love it though. You must have missed it all these years."

"Yeah, but I don't think I realized how much...until tonight."

"What's your favorite thing about it?"

"The freedom," she replied with tranquil sincerity. "It may sound strange but, when I'm skating, I don't have to think so carefully about my next move. I just...skate...and the less I analyze it, the better I am at it."

"That doesn't sound strange."

"It doesn't?"

"No, not at all."

She brushed aside some strands of hair that were tickling her cheek and gave in to her own curiosity. "Is there anything that makes you feel like that?"

"Sure. Baseball."

"You play?"

"Not on a team...not since little league, but Scott and I practice hitting at Connor's Field all the time."

"What's it like?"

"It's like...getting to shut the rest of the world out. I mean... I can try to anticipate what kind of pitch Scott will throw...decide whether I'm going to swing at it or not. I read him pretty well, so I can usually guess but, there are so many things that can affect how the ball crosses the plate...like how hard he throws it, whether his follow through is complete, even the weather...and once he releases the ball, there's no time to think anymore. All I can do is react...just relax and go on instinct. It kind of forces me to slow down. You know?"

Lydia smiled. "Yeah, that's exactly it."

Stiles just... _gets it. Gets her._ She remembers thinking that she should be surprised, but she wasn't. Every time they were together, it became more apparent that his mind worked differently than most people's. Even in class, she had noticed he was always finding correlations that others overlooked. He was so perceptive, so aware, so...smart, and he made her want to know him more.

"Hey, Lydia?"

"Hmm..."

"If you wanted too...maybe we could do this again sometime."

"So, you're going to keep paying Boyd to borrow his key...just so we can skate here after hours?"

He shook his head incredulously. "Nah... I can't afford to do that...but I did make a copy of the key," he grinned.

She laughed. "In that case... I might take you up on your offer."

She remembers holding his hand as they continued forward. She remembers thinking that skating with him was a lot like dancing with him – comfortable, natural, and connecting. With Stiles, she didn't feel like dead weight. She didn't feel like someone who ruins everything. With Stiles she felt light, and full of life, and visible...more than visible – _seen._ It was an unparalleled feeling. New, yet longed for.

She wanted it to last and last...but it didn't.

She remembers the hum of Stiles's phone buzzing in his pocket.

"Crap... Sorry."

"You need to get that?"

"Yeah...it's probably my dad."

"It's alright," she said, trying not to show her disappointment.

"I'll just be a minute. Okay?"

"Sure." Her hand felt bare when she let go of his, but she held back a few strides to give him some privacy.

She remembers a strange sensation coming over her, a kind of fog clouding her mind and momentarily obscuring her vision. It subsided, but then things became even more peculiar. She remembers a trail of tiny purple petals. She was compelled to follow them to their source, a flower which seemed to be embedded in the ice. When she crouched beside the withering bloom, she noticed a murky spot below the frozen surface. Despite the fact that something inside warned her not to look closer, her hands moved to swipe away the shavings of ice that covered it.

That was when she saw it. The face of the _thing – the monster_ that attacked her. The one with vicious red eyes and razor-sharp fangs. The one that had been appearing in gruesome, recurring nightmares, where it would stalk her with relentless cruelty, knock her down, and drag her prone body over the cold damp earth as she clawed at the ground, tearing handfuls of grass with bloodied fingers. A monster so haunting that sometimes she even saw it with her waking eyes.

She began to pound on the ice, striking out in abhorrence as the monster taunted her from within the safety of its shallow grave. She felt wildly out of control. Even the pain in her sore wrist wasn't enough to snap her from the trance she was in. She remembers the sound of her own scream; a guttural, uncontrollable shriek that practically choked her with the raw force it exerted on her larynx. Then, everything blurred to blinding white until...

She remembers being cloaked in warmth. Arms she recognized were protectively wrapped around her as she trembled with fear. Arms that belonged to Stiles.

"I've got you, Lydia. I've got you."

She stilled.

"You're safe with me. I promise."

He had said those words to her before. She believed him, and she hadn't regretted it. She believed him now too. Reaching out, she touched his hand, which was gently gripping her upper arm. As soon as she made contact, the numbness thawed from her chilled fingertips.

"Oh..." she heard him sigh. A wisp of his breath grazed her cheek before he slid on his knees to get in front of her. He braced both of his palms on her shoulders to keep her upright. "Lydia? Lydia, talk to me... _please."_

She stared at his concerned face. All she could articulate was his name – "Stiles," she croaked.

By then, she could hear Allison and Scott approaching, their skates hurriedly scraping across the rink.

 _"Lydia! Oh my God, Lydia!"_ Allison's alarmed timbre called. She skidded to Lydia's side and huddled next to her. "What happened?"

"Allison, give her a second," Scott intervened.

"Scott, she's my best—"

It got quiet, and then Lydia felt Allison's hand on her spine. She didn't know why Allison had abruptly stopped talking, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from Stiles long enough to find out.

He had moved one hand to her cheek. "You think you can stand up?"

She nodded listlessly; half fatigued from shrieking, half captivated by the tenderness of Stiles's touch.

After that, she remembers her friends – surrounding her with support.

Stiles and Allison helped her to her feet. Then, Stiles secured his arm around her waist, and Allison took her hand. They led her to the bleachers to sit down. She remembers trying to untie her skates, but her hands were so uncooperative that she only succeeded in twisting the laces into knots...like the one in her stomach.

Stiles knelt in front of her and covered her hands with his. "Here, let me..." he said sweetly, before making quick work of untangling the mess she had made.

Scott was standing behind Stiles. She remembers the compassion in his eyes as he handed her a bottle of water. She accepted it and took a sip, cool liquid soothing her aching throat.

Allison sought to console her. She sat next to her and smoothed her hair back into place as Lydia's head came to rest on her shoulder. Less than a week earlier, Lydia had done the same for Allison, when her heartbroken best friend told her that her parents had forbidden her from seeing Scott – the boy she loved. Lydia wiped her tears and promised to help her find ways to be with Scott. Once Stiles got involved, their newly forged alliance devised a plan to go ice skating. Allison had been so excited; the opportunity for the four of them to spend quality time together outside of school was really important to her. She chatted with Lydia about it for most of the day, and ever since they arrived at the rink, Allison had hardly stopped smiling.

But Lydia had just had some kind of bizarre hallucination in the middle of what was supposed to be a carefree evening. She remembers thinking that maybe the scathing voice that blamed her for ruining everything had been right.

When Allison said she would drive her home, Lydia's head immediately sprung from her friend's shoulder.

"Oh no, you won't," she refused, still hoarse from screaming.

"Lydia, we came here together. We are leaving together too."

"No," she rigidly repeated. Directing her eyes at Stiles and Scott, Lydia asked, "Could you give us a minute?"

"Uh...yeah..." the boys answered simultaneously.

When they were alone, Lydia argued her case. "Allison, don't you want to spend more time with Scott?"

"Of course I do. But not if that means—"

"And aren't you the one who... _for over a week straight_...has been pining for him and brooding about how unfair your parents are being?"

"I wouldn't say I was pining and brooding," Allison contended.

"I would," Lydia smirked, nudging her friend with her knee until she smiled back. "My point is... _This_ is your chance – the only thing we've been able to arrange without getting caught or having to pull the plug at the last minute. You and Scott were having fun, and I'm not going to be the one to ruin that on top of everything else."

"What do you mean everything else? You didn't—"

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything by it," she insisted, struggling to swallow the lump of grief in her throat. "Just...go be with Scott, you deserve to be with someone who makes you as happy as he does. I'm fine and..." She turned her attention to Stiles, who was sitting several rows behind with Scott, both of them changing into their sneakers. She got the impression that they were disputing something. Stiles was clearly frustrated, but his expression softened when she called out, "Stiles, could you take me home?"

He seemed surprised but quickly said, "Yeah, no problem."

Her mouth reformed into a smile. Beside the fact that she didn't want to be the reason Allison and Scott had to bring their date to a premature end, knowing she could stay with Stiles a bit longer was a relief. What she had seen that night terrified her. Lydia didn't know what was happening to her. All she knew for certain was that the last time she felt so lost, Stiles had been there, and he made her feel safe.

"See..." she asserted, "It's settled."

"Are you sure?" Allison checked.

"Yes...on one condition."

"What?"

Hands regaining their stability, she removed her skates and slipped into her high-heeled shoes. "You'll call me the second you get home and spill all the details."

Allison lit up into a radiant dimpled smile and threw her arms around Lydia, _"You_ are the absolute best."

"I know," she agreed facetiously; a stark contrast from the fiercely earnest way she hugged her friend.

* * *

In the parking lot, Stiles walked Lydia to the Jeep and opened the passenger's side door for her – the same as he did on the night of the dance. Once they were inside, he adjusted the heat and pointed all of the vents in her direction – the same as he had done on the night of the dance. She remembers thinking how nice it was that those gestures weren't just for show or special occasion. They were a reflection of how his mind worked; he was thoughtful, and considerate, and kind.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were parked in the driveway alongside her house. Neither of them had said much on the ride over, but Lydia could tell that Stiles was on edge. His thumb had been tapping on the steering wheel nearly the whole time, and whenever she looked at him, he was gnawing at his bottom lip. She didn't blame him. The truth was – what happened on the ice worried her too. It felt like a setback, a regression, and it burdened her with the worst kind of anxiety. Something she could only describe as... _dread._

An uncomfortable twinge nipped at her wrist. Without thinking, she began to massage it over the sleeve of her black jacket. Through the frost-trimmed windshield, she stared at her house – big...and dark...and empty. Her mother had gone out of town for the day and taken Prada with her. She wouldn't be home until the next morning.

"I could walk you in," Stiles offered.

Apparently, she was an open book to him. Reflexively, her body tensed, and she wrapped her arms around her midsection. She turned towards him with narrowed eyes and her mouth in a pout. She was almost ready to insist that she was fine, no doubt completely capable of walking the short distance from his truck to the door – alone. But his eyes were so soft, his tone so gentle, and his countenance so far from arrogant or condescending. Stiles made her realize that she didn't have to feel so exposed. Not with him. He was her friend after all, and he wanted to help her. Maybe it wasn't so wrong to let him.

She pursed her lips and cautiously replied, "If it's okay...I'd like to sit here for a while."

"Yeah, absolutely. As long as you want."

They were silent for a brief spell, but then, they talked...about a lot of things. They talked until Lydia felt more like herself. Not like the clichéd popular girl who concealed her unhappiness with makeup and an artificial smile, or like the meticulously contrived prima donna in a blood-stained party dress who almost died on the lacrosse field. Not like the traumatized victim who lost two whole days of her life to a fugue state, or like the town whack job who had just been wailing like a lunatic in the middle of a skating rink. Just Lydia Martin – a girl who loved math and science as much as she loved drawing, and ice skating. A girl who could never tire of reading and who spent Sunday mornings at the bookstore in Trenton, not just because it had the best selection of vintage hardcovers she had ever seen, but because no one in town would know her. A girl who thought more deeply and felt more intensely than she knew how to express. A girl who wanted to see the world, leave a mark on it, make it better somehow. Lydia wanted to do _so much_ with her life. She was only fifteen, and she was just trying to figure out how to make her dreams come true.

She doesn't remember how much time passed as they paddled different topics back and forth, but she does remember Stiles quietly asking, "Lydia, are you alright?"

"Um...yeah, I guess," she answered out of habit, unsure of what he was referring to specifically.

"You sure?" he questioned, pointing at her arm.

She lowered her eyes and saw that her sleeve had bunched up. The silvery glow of the half-moon was dim, but it may as well have been a spotlight on the ugly red welt that marred her left wrist. She cringed internally, resisting the urge to cover it.

Before she had the chance to reconstruct her defenses, Stiles spoke again. "I'm sorry...it's just...I noticed you've been favoring it all day," he explained, "and it looks painful."

He lifted his hand, let it hover over the bruise without touching it. She remembers the transfer of heat from his skin to hers, working like a salve to lessen the ache.

"It was painful," she admitted, hesitantly making eye contact, "but not so much anymore."

He nodded, lip twitching as he poked at it with his tongue. She remembers thinking that there was anger hidden beneath that twitch, and beneath the pink shade that tinted his cheeks too. She was pretty sure that he had figured out whose handprint was branded on her wrist, but he didn't toss any accusations around. His next statement was purely about lending Lydia his support.

"Okay. I just want you to know that...if you want to talk about anything – what you saw tonight...or what happened to your wrist... I'll listen."

She wasn't ready to do that. Inhaling sharply, she whispered, "I can't." But as soon as she witnessed the disappointment overshadowing the golden hue of his eyes, she amended, "Not yet."

"Whenever you're ready then, I'm here," he enlightened her.

His sensitive words were enough to minimize most of the shame and discomfort that was weighing down her chest and making her lungs resist full breaths.

She remembers the way he held out his hand for her; palm facing upwards, empty but offering everything she needed...acceptance, patience, understanding...and so much more – a real connection, true friendship.

Her gaze flicked from his hand to his eyes as she debated whether to risk letting him closer. Motionless, Stiles waited, making it clear that he didn't intend to pressure her. Lydia relaxed, stopped fretting about what to do next, and followed her instinct.

She remembers what it felt like when she placed her palm on top of his. She remembers what it felt like when her fingers filled the space between his. A perfect fit. She had to glance away; upsurge of emotion threatening to make her cry. Eyes rapidly blinking and shoulders shaking, she withheld tears. Stiles didn't say a word, but she could almost hear him reassuring her that things would get better. When she gathered enough courage, she looked at him with a genuine smile on her face. He smiled too, and it reached his eyes. Eyes that were gazing back at her like he wanted to give her the moon and the stars, that he in fact _would_...if she let him. She wanted to tell him that she didn't need any of that. She wanted to tell him that she would be grateful just to have him in her life.

She wanted to tell him so much, but she settled on a simple, "Thank you, Stiles."

"You're welcome, Lydia," he replied.

For a long time afterwards, they sat in the Jeep. They didn't speak. They just held hands, and it felt good.

She remembers thinking that everything between them – the way he danced with her, the way he responded to her after her fugue state, the hours they spent together while he helped her catch up and even get ahead in her classes, and every moment between them that night...even the difficult ones – all of it had been perfect. Perfect because Stiles never pretended. He was never anything other than who he was. And who he was...well...that person was pretty incredible. He was someone whose inherent goodness shone as brightly as the light in his eyes, whose voice, even a distant whisper, could get through to her...no matter how lost she was, and whose mind seemed to have a direct link to his heart...maybe even hers too.

What made it even better was that _Stiles was real_ – living, breathing proof that people _are_ capable of being _this_ good...at least _he_ could.

Further evidence that he was not just a boy. _He was a Stiles._

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia is standing in the middle of the skating rink, blanketed in warmth. Her arms are looped tightly around Stiles, tucked inside that hallowed space between his tee shirt and his hoodie. He has snugly pulled the sides of it around her, and he is keeping them both steady on the ice, his body a pillar of strength and comfort. With every breath, she can feel his chest expand in sync with hers, the pendant he gifted her firmly pressed between their harmoniously beating hearts.

She lifts her head from his shoulder and kisses his cheek...once...twice...three times for good measure.

"Hi, angel," he greets her.

"Hi, my love," she whispers affectionately.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she smiles. "I really am."

His eyes flare with the light of shared happiness. "Good," he sighs, sliding his hands to her waist. "So... Tell me everything."

"I will. I promise. But first, you should know – you were right."

"It's been known to happen," Stiles grins. "What about?"

"In between all that was going on...there was just _us_...and it was perfect." She rises to the tips of her skates to give him a kiss. Smoothing her hands over his chest, she continues, "It's always been like that... Hasn't it? World crashing down around us, but we get through it – together." She takes his hand in hers, brings it between them before entwining their fingers. "Somehow, we always fit together."

"We must be made up of the same particles," he deduces, running his thumb over their orange and blue heart. "Two halves of one whole."

"Yes, we definitely are."

They kiss, and it's filled with passion. It's all pressure and deliberate slow motion. Lydia can feel how completely invested Stiles is, and she makes sure he knows that she is too. His arms bring her closer, her hands attentively explore the angles of his face, and their legs shift in tandem to maintain their balance. When they part, it's not completely; noses still touching, abbreviated breaths caressing each other's lips.

He pushes her hair behind her shoulders before resetting his palms at the curve of her low back. "How about we stay a while longer? Make some new memories..."

She thinks about twirling around the rink with him, their bodies effortlessly communicating with one another as they create patterns on the ice that are all their own, the rest of the world fading into the background.

"I love the way your mind works," she compliments him.

And she doesn't stop there. She tells Stiles all of the things she wanted to say on the night in her memory...and a few things more. With every stride they take together, she watches him smile.

Lydia is eighteen. She still loves math and science, drawing and skating as much as she ever did, but she loves Stiles more. She now openly enjoys reading, even has a partner to share it with. Expressing her innermost thoughts and emotions can still be a struggle, but not with one special person. Not anymore.

Since the night in her memory, she has lost and gained much, had many unexpected life experiences – some more painful than she thought she could bear, others more blissful and fulfilling than she ever imagined.

The future is a lot clearer than it was two and a half years ago. She may not have everything figured out, but one thing is for certain – in every version of a life where her dreams have come true, she is with Stiles.


	22. The Calm You Seek

I will love you in open windows with gentle breezes,  
in stormy nights where lightning lends shadow  
to the goosebumps on your skin.  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

It's July 1st. The first cool evening in Beacon Hills since the onset of summer. The windows in Lydia's room are partially open, gentle breeze wandering in and flowing through the linens that adorn her antiqued-brass canopy. Outside, the sky is ink stained, sliver of a crescent moon masked by random patterns of languidly migrating clouds. Lydia observes the pale golden light, flickering in and out of view. She is lying in bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself, wishing she was with Stiles.

He is at home, in his bed. The one they have been sharing as frequently as her own. She wonders if he is thinking of her at this very moment. Maybe he is sleepless in the dark...like she is, staring at the moon...like she is, profoundly aware of the empty space beside him...like she is.

Her heart quickens while she pictures him – his smooth skin...awaiting her touch, his beautiful eyes...searching for the familiar sight of hers, his silky hair...tousled with another flawless case of bed head for her to tame, his soft lips...craving her kiss, the visible pulse in his neck and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest...both of which are intrinsically linked to hers. She imagines he has one arm behind his head and the other draped across his abdomen, thumb repetitively tapping on his ribs. His legs are probably partially tucked under blue cotton sheets, one foot hanging off the side of the bed, restlessly shaking off pent-up energy.

She misses him. She knows that she and Stiles can't spend every night together...at least not yet...but that doesn't make it any easier to be away from him. _She misses him._ Right now. Still. Whenever they are apart.

Lydia shifts her gaze to the nightstand, where there is a framed photo of Stiles and herself. It's from junior year, taken just days after their first kiss. They are looking at each other – Lydia with half-pursed lips, Stiles with a crooked grin, both of them relaxed and happy, both of them with stars in their eyes. Stars that, at the time, had been obscured by doubt and fear, but which now shine through – as clear and obvious to her as the _only-for-you_ smiles on their faces.

She reaches out, surface of the glass cool against her fingertips as she strokes Stiles's cheek. Letting her hand travel, she finds the necklace that is lovingly draped over the corner of the picture frame. Not just any necklace. The one that Stiles gave her yesterday – when he turned an ordinary day into one that she will never forget. She winds the silver chain around her fingers and cradles the two heart pendants in the palm of her hand. As she traces their engraved initials with her index, Lydia exhales a few fragments of longing. She imagines them, sparkling little notes, floating through the open windows and being carried by the wind...all the way to Stiles, so he can breathe them in, inhale her love...until it fills him with serenity.

She lets the concept occupy her mind, then retreats to a recent memory of him.

* * *

On a Thursday morning at the end of May, Lydia and Stiles were holding hands across the kitchen table. It had been too long since they shared breakfast, just the two of them, without interruption. Three months too long. And Lydia fully intended to make the most of every second they spent together. She was watching Stiles, mesmerized by his every move, wondering how anyone could look _so beautiful_ doing something as mundane as sipping coffee.

He was watching her too, like he was just as captivated by her. His head was tilted downwards, eyes peeking out from beneath thick lashes, mouth hitched upwards on one side. When he put his mug down and squeezed her hand, it felt like he was saying, _I'm right here with you, and I need this just as much as you do._

Stiles always had a way of reassuring her like that – of making every touch communicate... _more,_ of transforming even the subtlest caress, nudge, or change in pressure into a complete dialogue between them.

She squeezed back, hoping to offer as much warmth and encouragement as he so effortlessly gave to her.

Apparently, she had.

"What do you think about _us_...going on a date?" he asked with quiet confidence while gliding his thumb along the inside of her wrist.

Lydia felt her stomach clench with excitement. The previous night, they had made love for the first time, and she was still reeling from the experience; the pure affection, the intense desire and unparalleled pleasure, the heavenly afterglow – both of them blissed-out and clinging to each other. They held fast; the chance to be together for an entire night, as close as two people can be, finally realized. In the morning she woke, shortly before sunrise, contented and calm, eased out of a peaceful slumber by the sensation of his lips on her forehead...then her cheek...and her neck...and her chest...and her stomach. She delighted in the outward tenderness behind each of the _I love yous_ he whispered, and the intimate freedom of being able to say it back, without hesitation. She hadn't thought the day could get any better, but somehow, it just had.

Noiselessly setting her fork down, she glanced at the plate of French toast and scrambled eggs Stiles made for her. Her smile flourished as she met his eyes – full of love and optimism. Then, she cupped his jaw with her palm and raised a soft voice over the lump of happiness that was pushing on her vocal cords.

"I think that sounds like...a dream come true," she told him with watery eyes.

He leaned into her touch and pressed sweet, slightly sticky kisses to the heel of her hand. "How about Sunday? There's this place I've always wanted to show you."

She felt a tear slide into her palm when she replied, "Sunday's perfect."

And it was.

* * *

Under the blanketing comfort of a beautiful memory, necklace still clutched in hand, Lydia drifts to sleep.

But not for long.

An hour later, the onset of a sudden storm frightens her awake.

It's the most haunting type of storm – one distinguished by howling wind, crashing thunder, and sporadic lightning strikes...but no rain. The kind of storm that reminds her of the Wild Hunt.

She bolts to a seated position, only one thought on her mind.

"Stiles," she gasps.

He doesn't sleep during thunderstorms, not since before... Before he was taken.

Last time the universe haunted them with a reminder of that awful night, Lydia was with Stiles. But now, he is alone. Alone and afraid.

 _She has to get to him._

Tossing the sheets aside, she springs from the bed. She doesn't bother changing out of her pajamas, just secures her necklace in place and slips on some flats. Then, she hastily shuts and locks the windows, grabs her keys and phone, and heads for the door.

There is a force of nature at work in her. It may be confined by a petite frame and tenuous human condition, but it's far more powerful than any storm. It makes its presence known in the furious pounding against her ribs, like there are two heartbeats inside her chest – _his..._ and hers, wildly chasing after it.

In less than a minute, she is peeling out of the driveway; headlights cutting through the oppressive darkness, right foot heavy on the pedal as she zips down the street. Even though Lydia makes use of every shortcut, the drive to Woodbine Lane feels like an eternity. She thinks of Stiles the entire time, pictures him waiting for her...

Only now, the image she has of him is nothing like it was earlier. Now, he is tossing and turning; unrest spurred by apprehension, rather than longing. His formerly smooth skin is dotted with goosebumps, his beautiful eyes...blinking back tears, his soft lips...drained of color as they inevitably end up clamped between his teeth. The visible pulse in his neck and rise and fall of his chest are erratic and shallow...but still intrinsically linked to hers. His hands are probably gripping fistfuls of wrinkled sheets, and his legs must be kicking aside his plaid comforter, agitated by the pressing need to expend a wave of nervous energy.

Lydia feels it too.

She anxiously taps her neatly manicured fingernails on the steering wheel. Through the windshield she can see that the storm is becoming more volatile. It amplifies the pang of worry that has been compiling inside her since the moment she woke. With one block left to go, she resists the urge to drive faster, but it's painful to be so close...yet still so far away. She is hot and cold at the same time, scorching fire in her chest and icy tingle below her skin. The two elements compete for her attention, so she touches her pendant and the flame subdues the frost.

Pulling to an abrupt stop in front of the Stilinski home, she kills the headlights, shuts the engine, and shoves her phone into the pocket of her shorts. No sooner has she closed the door and clicked her key fob, than the skies open up; torrential downpour bombarding her with droplets the size of pebbles, gale wind whipping the rainfall in circular patterns, as if to ensure that she is thoroughly dowsed.

Lydia sprints to the front door; puddles splashing her bare ankles with each stride, lightning illuminating her careworn expression in the windowpanes. By the time she enters the safety of the house, she is soaked. She promptly locks the door behind her, flinching in response to a loud clash of thunder as she hangs her key ring on the wall hook.

Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she steels herself with the knowledge that she and Stiles are under the same roof. At last. Then, she abandons her sodden shoes in the hallway and tiptoes to his room.

Before she even crosses the threshold, he is halfway there, outline of his figure stumbling towards her in the dark.

"Lydia..."

"Stiles, Stiles..."

"Baby, what are you—?"

"I needed to see you...to make sure..." she explains, eager arms outstretched for him. "Are you okay?"

"I am now," his relieved voice says as his hands clamp around her shoulders.

One of her hands magnetically finds his cheek, fingers sliding back into his hair. The other connects with the center of his chest, and her equilibrium is immediately restored; two hearts, one beat, once again.

"Lyds, you're drenched," he comments, lips stamping a series of firm kisses to her forehead. "Hang on... I'll get you some towels."

He dashes out of the room, and she stands there, in the middle of the unlit air-conditioned space, whole body shivering in wet pajamas – cold – save for the warm hand and lip prints Stiles left on her shoulders and forehead. She wills herself to move, blindly yanking on the drawstring of her cotton shorts. They are dragged downwards by the weight of her phone, landing on the rug with a dull clunk. As Lydia steps out of them, Stiles returns. She feels another ember of heat; his hand pressing on her hip as he guides her a few paces in reverse. When the backs of her thighs bump the edge of his desk, he reaches behind her to turn on his lamp. They both squint into the dim flaxen light as he deposits a stack of towels next to his laptop.

"Here, let's take this off too... Huh?" he suggests, tugging on the hem of her tank top.

"O—k—kay," her teeth chatter.

She lifts her arms, and he pulls the clinging wet fabric over her head before tossing it to the floor with her shorts. Stripped down to a pair of cotton bikinis and her necklace, Lydia shivers again, but Stiles bundles her up in a thick, fluffy bath towel and brings her into a hug. _Instant warmth._

She dissolves into him, nestling deeper and deeper as dynamic storm surges make the room flicker with light and the windows rattle with hostile vibrations.

They hold on to each other for a good prolonged moment before Stiles takes her face in his hands. He doesn't speak, just looks at her with cinched eyebrows and a beautiful awestruck mouth, like it's a miracle that she is standing in front of him. Then he kisses her; soft and sweet and slow. She feels his bottom lip tremble as it parts from hers. She wants to say something, but Stiles renders her speechless when he picks up a second towel and begins gingerly squeezing the water from her hair, the same way she does after she showers.

Such an action could seem insignificant, but it isn't – not at all – because Lydia realizes that Stiles has been paying even closer attention to her than she already knew. He loves her _that much._

Once he is satisfied with his work, he drapes the towel over his chair and unravels the one that is wrapped around her, using it to pat every inch of her exposed skin; every single touch and every single kiss in between, _so gentle_ she could cry.

And as if that wasn't enough to send her heart into overdrive...

Rather than leave her side to retrieve an extra pair of her pajamas from the closet they've been sharing, he simply takes off his white tee shirt and helps her into it. It's warm from his body heat, and it smells like pine needles...and crisp summer air...and everything good in the world – in other words, _Stiles._

She stares at him; sun in his eyes evaporating the unshed tears in hers.

The ebb and flow of emotion and adrenaline is making her knees feel weak, and she is sure Stiles must sense it because he glides his hands down her back and lifts her off the ground. She lets out a small whimper of gratitude and winds her legs around him as he carries her to bed.

After they are tucked under the covers he whispers, "This is better... Isn't it?"

Lowering her head, Lydia nods into his shoulder. She can't quite fathom how she could ever be deserving of so much love. Her windpipe shrinks, and the nape of her neck prickles with embarrassment. She is supposed to be comforting Stiles, but somehow everything got flipped upside-down and _he_ is the one comforting her.

"I thought you had an early appointment..." she hears him say.

"So, I'll be late," she answers dryly. In all honesty, Lydia knows what he was getting at, but she is inhibited by a haze of unpleasant thoughts.

Stiles refuses to let her get consumed by it, instinctively leading her back to him with his familiar, affectionate tone. "Come on, talk to me," he implores.

She kisses the little mole on the right side of his chest. "I was worried about you."

"I was worried about you too." He bumps her temple with his nose until she lifts her head to meet his gaze. Then he tucks a few damp strands of hair behind her ear. "Actually, I'm still worried 'cause I think you're feeling bad, and you shouldn't."

"But, Stiles... I came here to take care of _you,_ and instead—"

"You have. You _are._ We're taking care of each other...right now."

"I don't think I'm pulling my weight," she confesses as lightning tampers with the brightness of the room.

"Well, I completely disagree." Shaking his head, he huffs out a sigh. She feels it breeze across her face, but the sound is smothered by another crack of thunder. "Speaking of taking care of each other... I should be asking... What were you thinking, driving here in a storm like this? You didn't even call to tell me you were coming."

"You would have told me not to, that it wasn't safe. Anyway, you knew I was... You felt it. Didn't you?"

He takes her hand and places it over his heart. "Yes, I felt you...long before you even got here."

 _"And_...you would have done the same for me," she adds, focusing on the steady thump beneath her palm.

"Yeah, I would have," he acknowledges without hesitation, "but that's hardly the point."

"How can you say that? It's exactly the point."

"I didn't mean it like that, but... What about the fact that a whole list of awful things could have happened while you were on your way here? What would I have done if...?"

"Stiles, I know. Believe me... _I know_ , but I'm not the least bit sorry," she informs him. "I needed to see you. I _needed_ to, and—"

"Shh..." he interrupts, running his thumb over her pouting lips. "I don't want an apology. What I'm trying to say is... I've been thinking of you all night...missing you so much. I needed to see you too, and I'm so glad you're here."

"Where else would I be?" she asks...

and then, she remembers.

 _She remembers the first time she almost told Stiles she loved him..._

* * *

There was a storm that night too; driving rain, harsh winds, and wrathful lightning. There was also turbulent thunder – both in the atmosphere and in her chest. She remembers the acute fear that was pulsing through her veins. It told her that Stiles was in trouble.

She hadn't seen him for days, and it was burdening her, heavily. She missed him, missed all of the things between them. She missed their talks, often hours-long, about everything and nothing at all. She missed reading together. They had just finished their book about the northern lights, one she chose specifically with him in mind. She missed taking spontaneous drives out of town...just to get a break from the madness that was their lives. Things always seemed clearer outside of Beacon Hills, especially when they were together. She missed the melody of his laughter and the way he said _Lyds_...always with a glimmer of a smile on his lips. She missed meeting him by his locker. She missed him stealing mints from the pockets of her cardigans and the shy kisses he would brush against her cheek when he whispered a _thank you_. She missed sneaking glances at him during class while drawing dots in the margins of her notebooks that mirrored the constellations of moles on his cheeks. She missed falling asleep next to him when they studied or researched until they were worn out. Even more, she missed waking up to the pure gold in his eyes the following morning. Last time, she woke with her forehead leaning into his chest and his arm draped over her side. She missed the calm he instilled in her, the solace he transmitted with the touch of his hands. Hell, she even missed arguing with him...on occasion, because Stiles always insisted that they hadn't made up unless they hugged, and _his hugs_ were superior. She missed all of that...and so much more.

Lydia attempted to distract herself, but it was pointless. There was a Stiles-sized hole in her life, one that nothing and no one else could dare to fill. His voice called to her...wherever she was, and her heart was practically screaming for her to answer him, to _be there_ for him, like he always was for her.

Until this night, she hadn't been able to gather the courage to do so. Not after she failed him so miserably.

Stiles had gone missing, four days earlier. He was out in the bitter cold – on the coldest night of the year in fact, his life was in danger, but she couldn't find him. When it mattered most, her so-called banshee abilities had been useless. _She_ had been useless. She led his dad in the wrong direction, wasted precious time and resources, and she was wrong. Stiles believed in her, and she let him down.

Regardless of her incompetence, he was found, and Lydia was so relieved that she could have cried in front of everyone. But she didn't...because the icy sting of guilt instantly crept in and froze the entire river of tears in her eyes. And, later that day, when Scott asked if she wanted to go to the hospital to see Stiles, she used the excuse of being hypersensitive to noise to hide from one of her best friends, from the boy she loved more than she knew how to express.

And then, things got worse. Stiles vanished again. Lydia blamed herself again. Two whole days passed, and when he reappeared, _still_ she stayed away. She allowed herself to be paralyzed by fear. Fear of how much she felt for him. Fear of looking in his eyes and seeing them riddled with hurt and disappointment. Fear of confronting the terrifying possibility of losing him forever.

But when Allison dropped her off at home that night, Lydia felt something shift inside of her; tugging in her heart as fiercely persuasive as it had been when she waited sixteen hours for Stiles to emerge from an icy tub of water. It was as though she could feel him slipping away. She couldn't let that happen. Suddenly, all of the complicated thoughts, all of the doubts and insecurities became irrelevant. What mattered was that Lydia was certain Stiles needed her, and that she could be the one to pull him back.

 _She had to get to him._

She remembers driving to Woodbine Lane, just after ten o'clock, and rushing to the porch in her pale blue, hooded raincoat.

Scott opened the door; his expression haggard, one hand braced against his abdomen as he ushered her inside. She remembers the uninvited trail of wet leaves and debris that followed her into the Stilinski house – a place that felt more like home to her every time she entered.

"I take it you talked to Kira..." Scott said while locking the door behind them.

She looked at him, puzzled, as she scraped her boots on the doormat. "No, she called a couple of minutes ago, but I was driving."

"Then, how'd you know to come here?"

"I just knew," she replied, shrugging out of her raincoat and hanging it on the wrought-iron rack in the foyer. "Where's Stiles?"

"In his room."

"Does his dad know yet?"

"No. He's stuck at the station. It's complete chaos over there... There was a bomb."

Her eyes widened with shock. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, but a lot of the other officers aren't."

Lydia remembers the anguish in her friend's eyes. It told her that things were far worse than she anticipated.

Stepping nearer to Scott, she asked, "What about you? What happened to you?"

"The Oni...they're looking for Stiles. Kira and I were trying to get him into the clinic, but they surrounded us. She's alright but—"

"Did they hurt him too?"

"No."

His response provided no respite; the quiver in his voice only made her more uneasy. Lydia's need to see Stiles, with her own two eyes, grew more urgent.

She began advancing towards the hallway that led to his room. "Then who?"

"Wait..." Scott's hand quickly closed around her wrist. "There's something you should know first. He's not himself right now."

She reluctantly stopped in her tracks. _"I know that._ That's why I need to see him. You can tell me the rest later."

"Lydia, listen. All the things that happened today...Coach...the decoy on the school bus, the bomb at the Sheriff's Station..." he trailed off, dark eyes pooling with moisture.

"Scott?"

Head ducked, he maintained hold of her wrist and set his other hand on her opposite shoulder, like he was about to give her really bad news.

"What are you saying?" she pressed.

"When I got stabbed...instead of helping me, Stiles...he knocked Kira out, and then...he twisted the sword."

She remembers the way her ears started ringing, making it difficult to hear a single syllable that came after. She tried reading his lips, but she was so distraught that the only words she could decipher were _Stiles_ and _nogitsune_. When the ringing ceased, Lydia managed to catch the end of his statement.

"It's taking control of him."

She stared at Scott, horrified. The pain was unbearable, far worse than any other she had the misfortune of enduring.

"Deaton had to give him some kind of lichen...something to poison the nogitsune. Stiles is pretty out of it. Maybe you should wait...until we're sure it's safe."

For a fleeting second, she was tempted to listen to him, to retreat from the overwhelming feelings she had for Stiles. But then, her mind caught up with her heart. She didn't want to run _from_ Stiles. She wanted to run _to_ him. She loved him _that much._

She shook her head, backing away from Scott. "No, I want to see him."

"Lydia—"

Determination loosened her tongue. "If it were Allison...would you stay away?" Deep down, she knew that Scott could sense her feelings for Stiles, but he probably never thought she would admit them through such a thinly veiled counterargument.

His jaw slackened with surprise. "No, I wouldn't."

"Then don't expect me to," she rigidly protested.

He surrendered an empathetic sigh and let go of her. "Okay...but I'll be right here, so if anything seems off to you...even a little, you call for me."

"It's Stiles. I know it's him, and he wouldn't—"

"Lydia just—"

"Scott, I trust him."

"I know you do," he acknowledged with a small smile. "I was just going to say... Watch out for the line of mountain ash by the door. If it's broken...the Oni...they can get in."

"Oh, right." She pursed her lips, waited for the awkwardness to pass, then lurched forward and put her arms around him.

Even though he was weary, and his wound must have been extremely sore, Scott returned the embrace wholeheartedly, like always.

"Try to get some rest. You'll heal faster," she advised before heading down the hallway.

* * *

Lydia remembers approaching Stiles's room, the tugging easing with each step closer. She remembers the constant murmur of rain, drowning out the click of her boots on the wood floors, and the thin band of amber light that was peaking beneath the door. She turned the knob, letting it swing open while she remained in the hallway. The bedside lamp provided just enough light for her to see him. _Stiles._

He was sitting at the edge of the mattress, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands, completely motionless; a shadow of the energetic, often hyperactive boy she knew... _and loved._

When her lungs reflexively expanded with a sharp inhale, his body reanimated; hands falling slowly from his face as he sprung from the bed.

"Lydia..." he exhaled, before even turning towards her.

"Stiles, Stiles..." she answered, practically leaping over the line of mountain ash to get to him.

They collided in the middle of the room; arms enveloping, hands searching, bodies pressed together. She remembers the way he repeated her name, _LydiaLydia...Lyds,_ and the welcome sensation of his lips grazing her skin. _How long had it been since he kissed her cheek? Days? A week? It felt like longer._ She remembers the way his taller frame precipitously sagged against her smaller one. She could feel his exhaustion all the way down to her bones, but she locked her arms tighter around him.

"I've got you," she assured him.

And she did. By some force of unknown inner strength, Lydia kept Stiles upright.

"I knew you'd come. I knew it," he told her in a low raspy tone – as if he were acknowledging a secret pact, just between them.

Perhaps such a thing existed. Her presence, the fulfillment of some unspoken vow they had made, a promise to always find their way back to each other.

Lydia remembers the certitude that swiftly washed over her. Maybe she couldn't rely on her banshee abilities, but her heart had led her exactly where she was supposed to be – her heart had led her to Stiles.

"Where else would I be?" she questioned.

He quaked with emotion; either an upshot of the inner turmoil afflicting his body, or the shock waves of her own...reverberating through him. She didn't know which.

"I missed you so much, Lyds."

"I missed you too."

Sliding his hands from her back to her shoulders, he sought to make eye contact.

His appearance was altered; red-rimmed lids, cheekbones slightly more pronounced, unnatural hollows casting blue-violet shades on pale skin. She could feel him struggling to stand, but his hand moved to her cheek, then his fingers explored the braids that were encircling her head and the loose ringlets that framed her face. He steadied a bit, less of his weight leaning into her.

"I've never seen your hair like this before. It's really pretty... I mean it _always_ is but..."

He was still the same Stiles; sweet and observant as ever, same spark in his irises too. Lydia, however, was changing. She remembers it – her first real heartbreak; not a single wound, but rather a multitude of tiny fissures forming between the already tender fibers of her heart. It was a novel kind of pain, one that somehow strengthened her resolve, enabled her to focus on Stiles. He needed her, and she figured the best way to help him was to make things feel normal...or as close to normal as she could, under the circumstances.

So she smiled at the compliment and said, "Thanks," while returning his caress as gently as possible. His hair was damp, scent of rainwater wafting from it as she carded the mess she made when they were hugging. "Yours is... Well, let's just say it's looked better," she joked feebly, hoping to inspire one of his crooked grins.

Lydia got that and more. Stiles exhaled a laugh, and she followed him. Their eyes locked for an extended moment. Then they both broke down, crumpling to the floor beside the bed; a pile of shaking limbs and free-flowing tears.

The storm continued to lash out with a furious amalgamation of rain, wind, lightning, and thunder – all of it driving Lydia and Stiles further and further into the safety of each other's arms. She remembers clutching his tee shirt and breathing him in through abbreviated gasps. She remembers never wanting to let go of him or the bond that was growing between them. From the way he was holding her, with his hands spread across her back and his nose buried in the curve of her neck, she understood that he didn't want to either.

But it was Stiles who abruptly pulled away. "Wait a minute... What am I doing? Lydia, you have to get away from me right now."

Her response was instinctive. "No, I'm not leaving you," she refused, grasping his forearms.

"Lyds, it's not safe. _I'm_ not safe."

"That's not true."

"I guess Scott didn't tell you what I did," he assumed.

"He did, but that wasn't you."

"All those things today...what I did to Kira...to him..." He looked down, scrutinizing his upturned palms with disgust. "I remember it. I could have... And you—you can't heal like he can."

She took his hands in hers. "I won't need to. I'm with _you_ right now, and you would never hurt me."

"I never want to... But how can you be sure I'm me?"

 _Because I love you,_ she immediately thought.

She almost blurted it out too. _Almost._

"Because I—" She caught herself midway through her declaration.

She couldn't tell him like that. It didn't seem right.

As a rule, Lydia never put much faith into those three words. They were too like the tide; inconstant and easily swayed by external forces. They could be sincere and reassuring, like when her mother or Allison said them, or they could be phony and hollow, like when her father carelessly tacked them to the end of another one of his blanket apologies. Some people said those words often – a quick "love you" as they hung up the phone or walked out the door. Others never said them at all. They were three words that she herself had uttered...without fully comprehending the feelings that should anchor them.

But then, she fell in love with Stiles...and everything changed. She believed an _I love you_ between them could be different. She imagined telling him...at least a dozen different ways so far...but never like this. When it finally _did_ happen, she wanted it to be about them – Stiles and Lydia – nothing else.

So, even though, for the first time in her life, Lydia physically ached to say those three words, she withheld them. She remembers how her mind raced, searching for different words, ones that could describe the incomparable feelings she had for him, and alleviate his fears as well.

He mistook her hesitation for doubt and started to pull away again, but she tightened her grip. Then Lydia spoke from the heart, hoping that Stiles would understand.

"Because...I can feel you...right here." She remembers his eyes widening as she moved his hand to her heart and the way they rapidly blinked as she asserted, "We're tethered. Do you remember that too?" She waited for him to nod, then continued, "I'm sure because...only you would have known it was me standing in your doorway...before you even saw me. I'm sure because only _you_ would hold me the way that you did...or notice that I tried a new hairstyle. I'm sure because you called me _Lyds,_ and because I know the real you... Stiles, I'd recognize you anywhere."

A few more droplets spilled over his lashes, then he sucked in his bottom lip and dropped his head to her shoulder.

"How did I let this happen?"

"You didn't."

"But...if I had just been strong enough..."

The implications of those words poked her right in the chest, and the fractures in her heart expanded. Stiles thought himself weak...and that couldn't be further from the truth.

Lydia set her hand on the side of his neck, feeling his pulse throb beneath her thumb as she spoke softly to him. "Did you think I was weak? Last year...the terrible things I did..."

He lifted his head, eyebrows pinched together as he responded, "No, of course not. That wasn't your fault."

"What you're going through...it's not so different. I know what it's like to have some _thing_ in your head, making you do things you don't want to do. But Stiles, you're strong. You're the strongest person I've ever known...human or otherwise. If anyone can fight this – it's you." She paused to swipe the tears from his cheeks. "You're not alone either. Scott, Allison, Kira, Isaac... They're all going to help you. And I'm here. Okay? I'm going to do whatever it takes to get you better. I promise."

"Lydia..." he choked out.

"I'm not leaving you," she repeated, touching her forehead to his – a secret kiss.

"I'm scared," he whispered, pressing into her.

"So am I, but remember what you said to me that day...when you were walking me home from the bookstore and...and I bansheed out on you?" She felt him shudder with a release of tension, and she knew she was going in the right direction. "I was so scared, and I thought it would be safer for you to stay away from me, but you said... 'It's less scary when we're together.'"

"I meant it," he sniffled.

"I know you did, and I feel the same. So, we have to stick together then... Right?"

"Right," he exhaled slowly.

The next time their eyes met, he was smiling – a genuine smile. His countenance was calmer, and brighter, and much more like _her Stiles._

"Lydia?"

"Yeah?"

"Does this mean we're using _bansheed out_ now?"

She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a grin.

"I'm taking that as a yes," he remarked, lightly tapping her left dimple.

"Stiles..."

"Admit it. You sorta like it."

"You should get in bed. It's too cold on the floor," she deflected.

"Yup, I knew it. You do," he insisted.

Once she helped him up and straightened his jumbled comforter, Stiles got under the covers. She remembers the way he reached for her, arm outstretched, hand ever so slightly trembling until it connected with hers. She remembers what it felt like when their fingers curled around each other, the ever-present electricity between them more powerful than the storm outside. She kicked off her boots and climbed in beside him, sitting with her back propped on two of his pillows and the headboard.

"It's alright if you want to sleep," she told him, massaging his shoulder. "I don't mind."

"I don't want to sleep. I want to talk to you... Tell me about your day."

"You don't want to hear about that."

"Sure I do. We always..."

She had briefly averted her eyes – a reflex, and that was all he needed.

He looked at her curiously. "What are you trying _not_ to tell me? Did something else happen?"

"No," she denied in vain.

He raised his brows.

"You're not going to like it."

"Okay, now I've _gotta_ know," he persisted.

She remained silent.

"Lydia, spill."

"Fine," she caved. "P—Derek's uncle was lurking around the school today."

"What? Where?"

"In the hallway... I saw him talking to my mom. He said he was from the Health Department and that he was there to schedule hearing tests."

He narrowed his eyes. "What the hell?"

"So, after school I...I went to the loft."

 _"Wait—What?_ What were you thinking?"

He moved to get up, but she set her hands on his shoulders.

"I didn't go alone. Allison was with me – and she brought her stun gun."

"Good," he relaxed, dropping his head back onto the pillow with a sigh. "She use it?" he asked with a wry smirk.

It faded as quickly as it had taken shape when she answered, "Yes..."

"What did he do?"

"The usual...taunted both of us, talked in circles, generally made me sick to my stomach..."

Lydia brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. She didn't want to talk about Peter, how he bragged about what he did to her and the way he used her, how he took sick satisfaction in having awakened a part of her that frightened and confused her more than anything else. She didn't want him invading the space she was sharing with Stiles.

He responded to her discomfort, pushing off from the bed to sit up, and that time, Lydia didn't stop him. She remembers the irrepressible desire to be held by him, so when he put his arm around her, she leaned into him without a moment's delay.

"I know you don't want to talk about him. I don't either. He isn't worth our time." Putting his hand on her knees, he guided her a little closer. "I do want to know about you though. Are you alright?"

"No."

She remembers the building pressure behind her eyes and the compassion in Stiles's tone when he coaxed, "Please tell me."

"When I tried to leave, he grabbed me..."

"Son of a—" he muttered with a clenched jaw. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not much... Mostly, I'm annoyed – at myself for letting him get to me and for even going there in the first place. Allison warned me it was a bad idea. I knew she was right but, Stiles, I had to try. I need to know how this banshee thing works...sooner rather than later."

"I get it," he nodded. They were sitting so close, she could feel his chest swelling with every breath and see the iridescent shine on his eyelashes whenever another flash of lightning lit up the room. "You're frustrated. We've been at this for months, and we still have a lot to figure out but... Why today? What got your back up against the wall, made you think he was your only option?"

She blinked; her eyes were getting blurry. She wasn't sure how to tell Stiles that she went there for him...because she was more terrified of losing him than she was of facing off with a monster like Peter.

"I... I don't want to fail again."

"You haven't. What you've been able to do is incredible."

"But...the other night..."

He cautiously lifted his hand from her knee, as if he were afraid any sudden movement might frighten her. When she didn't shy away, he gingerly brushed a few tendrils of her hair aside and cupped the left side of her face.

"It's okay. You can tell me," he encouraged.

"I heard your voice. I heard _you._ You said... 'Come find me', and I tried for you," she hiccupped. "I tried _so hard,_ but I couldn't do it. If Agent McCall hadn't been able to—" Her voice cracked, and a stream of hot tears escaped the corners of her eyes.

"Aww...Lydia. I had no idea. Come here..." Without a trace of hurt or disappointment, he brought her into a secure embrace.

She shut her eyes and clung to him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh...don't be."

"I should have been able to help you."

"Would you believe me if I told you that you did? That some part of me knew you were trying to find me?" he asked, rubbing her back in smooth strokes. "You're helping me right now too, just by being here for me...and by letting me be here for you too."

"You mean that." It wasn't a question. She knew he did.

"Yeah, because every time I think about giving up, you give me a reason not to. It's always been like that... It's not just one of us helping the other. We're a team, and it means so much to me."

"It does to me too," she said, planting her cheek on his shoulder. "Stiles?"

"Hmm..."

"I don't want to lose you," she whispered into his neck, heat of his skin transferring to her lips.

"You won't. I'll fight harder...do whatever it takes... Once we figure out how to get rid of this fox spirit, we're gonna go right back to banshee research, and we'll figure that out too."

She remembers the way his body shook as he finished his statement. She worried that he was crying, but when she looked at him, Lydia could see that Stiles was laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Can you believe the conversations we have? Banshees...and fox spirits...and psychotic, wannabe alpha werewolves that lurk around high schools..."

After a stagnant pause, she laughed too. If she hadn't, she would have kept on crying. So, Lydia laughed with the boy she loved. She wound her arms around him and held him close. Just like that, all that had been weighing on her started to lift.

When they parted, Stiles passed his hand over his face. "I wish we could do something normal. You know? Like go for a drive or read together...but this storm is ridiculous, and my eyes are too tired."

"How about I read to you then?"

"Would you?"

"Yeah, of course – anything you like."

"Uh...there's a copy of _The Hobbit_ on my nightstand. I usually read it this time of year. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all. I haven't read it in a long time. It'll be nice." Leaning to her left, she located the book under a stack of papers. The corners of her mouth uplifted as she observed the familiar blue hardcover, years of careful wear marking the binding and edges. "I used to have one just like this, but I lost it." Resting the book in her lap, she opened it and skimmed the copyright page. "It's even the same edition...except mine would have had a butterfly drawn on the inside of the back cover. I had this habit of—"

She remembers the warmth of his palm, excitedly clasping her forearm. "Lydia, you're kidding me!"

"No. Why?"

"Look..."

Her lungs stilled and her stomach swirled with suspense as he quickly flipped through the text, fingers enthusiastically swiping the last several pages aside.

Sure enough, there was a drawing of a butterfly. Her drawing. The one she sketched with colored pencils when she was only eight years old.

Lydia released the breath she was holding and began outlining the intricately detailed, orange butterfly with her index.

"Stiles, look here... These are my initials. I had read somewhere that certain artists like to hide their signature in their work, so it doesn't distract from the content...and I used to put mine in the design of the wings."

Reverently, his finger followed hers, tracing the script _LM_ at the base of the left wing. "That's really smart," he commented.

Her heart accelerated as she remembered another time he said that to her. The day she kissed him until the panic left him. The day she knew that what she felt for him was Love.

His arm was still around her, and he gave her a gentle squeeze when he explained, "This...it's more than just a book. I...um... I found it at the park in Andrews Hill, a week or so after my mom died. I read it cover to cover in a couple of days. Then I read it again...and again. It was one of the few things that took my mind off how awful I was feeling. It gave me...an escape for a while. This book got me through a lot of sleepless nights."

"Really?"

"Yeah, Lyds," he confirmed.

She remembers the way his lips sculpted her nickname with the hint of a smile.

"Well...I'm glad I lost it then," she told him, gazing directly into his eyes, which were glossy with nostalgic awe and already fixed on her.

"I'm glad you found it again too."

He covered her hand with his, and she smiled; the knowledge that she had consoled Stiles, even indirectly, all those years ago, affecting her in a profound way. She remembers the burgeoning impression of heat in her chest. It was as if the molten light he radiated was miraculously healing the fissures in her heart – not closing them up, but rather filling them...with the same pure gold that glinted in his eyes, leaving her heart bigger and brighter than it was before. Lydia remembers understanding that her love for Stiles was no longer something she held in her heart – it was part of her heart...and it always would be.

They sat in silence for a moment; astounded and emotional. Then together, they sank below the covers; _their_ book between them, his left hand bound to her right. Outside, the storm was still raging, but being with Stiles made all of the discord fade into the distance. Lydia remembers the way he was looking at her – like he had just found the calm he had been seeking.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

He held her hand, thumb repeatedly gliding over her knuckles as she read the first paragraph aloud:

 _"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort."_

She read page after page, continuing until her throat was dry and her voice was raspy. All the while, she thought of how much she loved Stiles, how much she wished they could escape Beacon Hills someday, start over in a new place – one that wasn't determined to hurt them.

She remembers the last words to pass his lips. He was half-asleep, eyelids fluttering shut. "Me too, Lydia," he murmured.

And she wondered if she had thought and wished so passionately that Stiles could sense it.

Using the aged satin bookmark to hold her place, she closed the text and nestled it between them. She remembers pressing her lips firmly to his forehead, hoping against logic that all of the care and affection tied to her kiss could be enough to protect him.

The last thing Lydia remembers is resting her head on Stiles's pillow, sight and scent and nearness of him enough to soothe the lingering ache from her heart and lull her to tranquil sleep.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia inhales deeply. It's quiet now. The storm has passed, and Stiles is twirling the ends of her hair with his fingertips.

"Where's your copy of _The Hobbit_?" she asks.

She sees _the spark;_ the curious delight that ignites in his eyes whenever she remembers something that brought them closer together.

"I think you mean _our copy_... It's over there, on the bookshelf," he smiles.

"We never finished it... Did we?"

"No, but we could – anytime you want. The bookmark is right where you left it."

"You mean, you didn't...?"

"I didn't want to. Not without you," he enlightens her.

Once again, she is blown away by the unwavering virtue of his love. All this time, he was waiting...for her _._ He loves her _that much._

Suddenly it dawns on her – She didn't tell him.

The revelation hits her _hard,_ like a punch in the center of her chest, impact making it difficult to breathe. "Oh... Stiles," she gasps, as her body tenses.

He wastes no time responding, drawing his arms tighter around her. "Hey, what is it?"

"I just realized..."

"What?"

Her volume is hushed by disbelief and remorse when she clarifies, "I didn't tell you that night... I wanted to – so badly, but I didn't. I didn't tell you today either. I thought it so many times, but I didn't say it. I let a whole day go by and—"

"Lyds, slow down a little," he soothes, cupping the back of her head with one hand. "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't tell you...I love you."

His expression shifts from one of confusion, to that of relief and tender recognition. "Yes, you did."

"No, I—"

 _"You did_...at least ten times. I counted."

Stiles is so certain that she immediately relaxes, eyes and heart focused solely on him as he wipes her tears.

"Here..." He picks up her hand, then kisses the pad of her index finger. "They were the first words you said this morning. You weren't even fully awake yet, but your lips were pressed to my neck, like this..." he ducks his head down to demonstrate, "and you said, 'Mmm...Stil—es... I love you soooooooo much.'"

She giggles at the vibration of his voice against her skin. "Did I really?"

"Yeah, you did...and I felt it everywhere."

"I feel it too," she willingly confesses.

"And that was just the beginning. You told me in a bunch of other ways too," he proceeds with an adoring smile, kissing her fingertips, one at a time, as he lists each unspoken _I love you._ "Like...by pouring coffee for me before yourself at breakfast, and in the way you washed my back in the shower." He rolls her ring finger between his thumb and index. "I heard it in the tone you used when we were curled up on the couch and you said, 'Let's stay like this forever'...then again, in your laugh at that joke I made at dinner – the one that no one else got. There was the moment on the back porch too...when we were watching the sunset. You looked at me, in _that way_ that you do, and you asked what I was thinking. Then you listened, like my answer was the most important thing."

"It is," she assures him, inching nearer, until their foreheads are touching.

"I felt it in the way you held my hand when I drove you home, and in the way you kissed me good night, like you didn't want to stop."

"I _didn't_ want to."

"Me neither."

His lips connect with hers, and she matches his movements with ardent devotion.

"You're wearing this..." he notes, touching her pendant necklace, "and the fact that you're here tells me you love me too...'cause you knew I needed you, and you didn't hesitate." Grazing his knuckles over her rib cage, he leads, "Know what else?"

"What?"

"I have never felt more loved than when we are together...even if neither of us says a word."

"Me too," she smiles. "I still get to say it though... Right?"

"As often as you want... I'll never tire of hearing it."

She sneaks another kiss. "I love you, Stiles."

"I love you, Lydia."

They hold each other, reveling in the calm after the storm, each caress, nudge, and change in pressure between them...part of a silent conversation.

"What do you hear now?" she inquires as she snuggles closer.

"I love you."

She takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. "What about now?"

"I love you."

"Now?" she asks once more, tracing a butterfly over his sternum.

"I love you."

* * *

When she wakes the next morning, after having peacefully slept the entire night, Lydia can't stop staring at the beautiful image of Stiles, glowing in his sunlit room. She feels his smooth warm skin against hers. When his eyes open, they are brilliantly reflecting the light from within him. She combs through his hair with her fingers and admires his soft parted lips. She can feel the pulse in his neck and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, both in perfect harmony with hers. His arms are wrapped around her, and their legs are entangled under blue sheets. Together, they are still, and comfortable, and calm.

There is an _I love you_ on her lips when she kisses him good morning.

"That's one," he replies with a smile.


	23. Still Looking Up

I won't give up on us  
Even if the skies get rough  
I'm giving you all my love  
I'm still looking up  
\- I Won't Give Up by Jason Mraz

* * *

Lydia and Stiles have spent most of Friday afternoon and evening with Scott and the rest of their friends. They are at a Fourth of July party at Mason's house, and the backyard looks like a resort. There is a spacious patio, shaded by a massive pergola, fully decorated with strands of red, white, and blue twinkle lights. The structure houses a large outdoor banquet table that is flanked by two sprawling benches. From there, a flagstone pathway cuts directly through the meticulously landscaped gardens, where it leads to an in-ground swimming pool, rows of padded lounge chairs bordering either side.

That is where Lydia is now. She is sitting with Hayden and Mason, the three of them at the shallow end with their calves and feet submerged in the water. At the opposite end, several of their classmates are splashing around while music booms from the surround sound. The bass resonates in the wide-open space, blending with the din of conversation, laughter, and activity.

Every so often, Lydia's thoughts begin to stray. The yard is jam-packed with people, half of whom she doesn't know. Although she is having a good time in a stress-free atmosphere, she is getting restless. To be honest, Lydia is currently skirting beyond her comfort zone, and she can't help but laugh internally when she contemplates the noteworthy change.

A few years ago, _she_ would have been the one throwing the party. She would have planned for weeks, organizing every last detail. She would have invited everyone she knew...and even a bunch of people she didn't: the more guests, the greater the success. She would have scoured every boutique and department store in search of the perfect outfit and deliberated over how to style her hair. Then, she would have counted down the days to the big event...insisting that the quiver in her stomach was an indicator of anticipation, rather than a mounting sense of dread, and that the disquiet was in no way correlated to the emptiness she would inevitably experience when she was smothered by loneliness in a house filled with people. On the day of the party, she would have gone through all the motions, been the epitome of a congenial hostess, and ensured that everyone had _the best_ time so that hers was the party to be talked about for weeks to come, the benchmark for all that followed. Even if it meant plastering on a smile to hide her unhappiness. Even if it meant wearing herself out with the burden of pretending to be someone she wasn't. Exhaustion did have its advantages. Usually, after one of her parties, Lydia was too tired to cry herself to sleep.

But things change. She changed.

She certainly isn't going to turn her nose up at the opportunity to have some fun, but in light of everything she has been through, being known as "the girl who throws the best parties in Beacon Hills" is no longer high on Lydia's list of priorities. It doesn't even make the final cut. Not since she connected with a genuine group of friends – people who rely on and would do anything for each other. Definitely not since she fell for someone who truly loves her, someone who saw through the carefully curated image she presented to the world, right down to the very heart of her.

So tonight, Lydia is more than content to sit back and be one of the many guests, to blend in, let the music set the tempo, and wait for the clear onyx sky to sizzle with fireworks.

And, if she really had her way...she would be spending the rest of the evening at a party for two.

She searches for Stiles in the crowd. He is standing by the house with Scott and Liam, arms folded across his chest, fingers repetitively drumming on his bicep. She watches him throw his head back, laughing at something Scott said, and it makes her go all warm and gooey inside. She loves seeing him like this – relaxed and happy. It's worth every minute of heartache that she endured when he was gone and every second of longing she feels for him now.

Although her desire to be alone with him is only increasing, she is trying to be patient, to share him. She knows the others missed him too... _almost_ as much as she did.

She takes a breath and remembers that they will be together. Soon.

Excusing herself from the discussion with Hayden and Mason, she pulls her legs from the water and quickly dries off. After unraveling her hair from her topknot, she combs her fingers through her strawberry-blonde mane until it cascades down her back in loose waves. Then, she slides into her sandals, smooths her hands over her white shorts, and crosses the yard to get a drink.

As she passes through the garden, summer heat steeping the fragrance of roses and gillyflower into the air, she can feel Stiles's eyes on her. When she meets his adoring gaze, he gives her a wink that inspires a fluttering in her chest. She wants him to know it, so she smiles and places her palm at the center of her rib cage, patting her fingers above her heart, two times. He cinches up his eyebrows and presses a closed fist to his mouth, and she knows he feels it too.

With restored lightness, Lydia maneuvers past another band of people and steps onto the patio. She is pouring herself some iced tea when she feels _his_ loving arms wind around her waist and the firmness of his chest against her back.

 _The wait is over_.

"I've got a confession to make," Stiles admits as he kisses her cheek.

"Fire away," she replies before taking a sip of tea.

He drops his chin to her shoulder. "There's this girl – not just a girl – one _so beautiful,_ I'm convinced she is actually an angel... I've been admiring her _all night_ , and I'm dying to be alone with her."

"Is that so?"

"Uh-huh."

She puts her cup on the table and reaches behind to glide her fingers through his hair. "Well, I have it on good authority that she's dying to be alone with you too."

"Do you uh..." he hums, grazing his lips against her neck...which consequently incites a chain reaction of blissful tingling throughout her body. "Do you think she'd run away with me?"

"She might...if you ask her nicely," she flirts.

As if on cue, a new song begins, something slower that matches the beat of her heart with its intense, recurrent pulse. Lydia turns, so that she and Stiles are facing each other. He is smiling, and his eyes hold more beauty than the sky speckled with stars. Drawing her in, he ducks down to kiss her, and she can feel the magnitude of his love washing over her in fluid surges. She instinctively grips the side of his tee shirt, mindful of nothing but the need to encourage him closer. Then, they sway to the music, both of them inching nearer until their cheeks are pressed together. One of his hands slips beneath her curtain of hair, mingling with the skin that is exposed by her backless swimsuit. The other is joined with her right, tucking their linked digits into the cozy nook between their ribs. They are dancing, and he is holding her _so close,_ and stroking the length of her spine in random patterns, aimlessly but completely invested in his endeavor.

Lydia gets swept up in the sensation of it all. It's heaven on earth. Stiles is with her, and there is no better feeling than being in his arms.

By the second verse, he resumes, "I bet no one will notice if we leave early."

She can hear that he is serious, but she leans back to observe him, nonetheless. He has _that look_ on his face. The one which informs her that he already has a plan.

"I'm inclined to agree," she shrugs. "The fireworks will be starting soon...and everyone's going to be preoccupied."

"Is that a yes then?" he questions with a hopeful half-grin.

"Technically...you didn't ask me yet," she points out.

His grin broadens to a full smile as he lifts her hand and marks her knuckles with his lips. "Will you run away with me, angel?"

"Yes," she answers with unabashed certainty before nuzzling into the crook of his neck and adding, "just as soon as this song ends."

They slow dance through the bridge and chorus. Everything else fades into a backdrop of colored lights and languid motion. After the last note sounds, Lydia rises to the tips of her toes to kiss Stiles. He fully commits to returning her affection, his body absorbing her gravity and sweeping her off her feet. They kiss, oblivious to everyone and everything around them. They kiss until their lungs are desperate for a breath. Then gently setting her down, he takes her hand and guides her towards the house, making sure to stop and say good night to Scott, so he doesn't worry.

With an understanding nod, he tells them to have a good time. "You deserve it," Scott remarks with earnest warmth, giving them both a hug.

They make their exit without any interference, cutting through the house, then down the lengthy flight of stairs that leads from the front porch to the sidewalk, noise of the party becoming more muffled by the second. Hand in hand, they sprint to the Jeep; scuffle of their soles rushing across the pavement and an outburst of giddy laughter uplifting through the atmosphere like a prayer of gratitude.

Once inside the truck, they decide to head to Lookout Point, where they will be able to witness every display of fireworks in Beacon Hills without anything hindering their view. The engine roars to a start, powerful shudder of enthusiasm reverberating all the way to their bones.

As if by magic, a drive they have taken countless times, feels new and exciting – an adventure. The roads are practically empty, so they roll down the windows and crank up the stereo. It enchants them with a sweetly familiar tune. One reminiscent of late nights in each other's rooms, desire to be together all the purpose they need. One about discovering the awakening power of love and the freedom of getting lost in each other's eyes. One they have listened to, beginning to end, in the comfort of a reassuring embrace, their bodies fitting together like they were always meant to, moonbeams and stardust keeping the shadows at bay.

They both know the lyrics, so they shamelessly sing along, hitting every inflection and every _oooh_ and _la la la_ in between. The headlights are shining brightly ahead. Every sound and trace of movement somehow attuned to their song – from the bobble of the Jeep as it treads over the tarmac...to the turn signal ticking in tandem with the acoustic guitar. The trees and tall grasses shimmy in graceful unison. Even the curves in the road appear to have been mapped out to flow with the melody.

It's the kind of moment when everything in the universe seems to have aligned, just so Lydia and Stiles could enjoy it together. He glances at her, pure love in his eyes when he reaches out to caress her face. And she knows he feels it too.

* * *

At the Point, Stiles stows the rear seat, and Lydia lines the trunk with blankets so they can sit in the back of the Jeep. Fireworks only minutes away, they quickly huddle up together; she drapes her legs across his lap, and he envelops her in his arms. The air is dense and muggy, but the additional warmth he provides is not the least bit unwelcome.

They kiss...again and again. Lydia's heart is thumping at a rapid pace, but she is completely at peace. Stiles is too. She can feel it. It's in the way he is circling the nape of her neck with his fingertips and in each and every soft sigh he moans into her mouth. He is strong underneath her and tenderness all around her, and he tastes like the chocolate-covered strawberries they nabbed on the way out of the party and Stiles.

When he aims his attention at her neck, Lydia relishes in the tickle of his breath against her ear and the silkiness of his lips and tongue at her pulse point. It feels good. _So good_ that he is making her lightheaded, but she opens her eyes, wanting to capture and memorize every detail about this moment, so she can revisit it anytime.

His crop of dark hair is pliable between her fingers, skin of his back hot where her other hand has wandered beneath his shirt. He smells like chlorine, and sunscreen, and pine needles...always pine needles. Like the ones on the trees that jut out over the bluff, their branches outstretched towards the moon. A moon that hangs low at half-size, but which is also luminous and haloed with an ethereal amber corona. There are stars – too many to count – one for each thing she loves about Stiles, the rest for the infinite number of days she wants to share with him. It's only when their light begins to expand, streaming outwards in every direction, that Lydia realizes her eyes are tearing.

She can't help it. This is all she wanted – just to be with him. Stiles and the heat and the moon and the stars and their love. It's perfect. 

He nudges her nose with his, then takes her hand and weaves their fingers together. "So...the party was fun..." he comments.

"Yeah."

"But this..." he pauses to delicately and deliberately kiss her temple, next words echoing her thoughts, _"This_ is all I really wanted tonight – just to be with you. It's perfect."

"It really is," she smiles, tilting her head up, seeking another kiss.

That's when she sees it.

A shooting star.

It's falling slowly through the night sky, crimson glow blazing behind it.

"Stiles, look..." she breathes.

His eyes follow hers, looking up, then widening with wistful elation. "Lyds, do you remember?"

And much to her delight, she effortlessly does.

"Yes, I remember."

 _She remembers the night she and Stiles took a leap of faith together..._

* * *

Lydia remembers not being able to concentrate on anything other than the static trill of a record player. She remembers a blur of light and color, indiscernible shapes obscured from her view, like squinting through a pane of foggy glass. She was numb, save for the ache in her chest. The one that reminded her – Allison was gone...and she wasn't coming back.

She remembers that pain, compounded by the longing she felt for someone else – someone who had touched her heart in an equally important but profoundly different way. _Stiles._ He wasn't there. Worse than that, every day he drifted further...and it was her own fault. She _still_ hadn't told him, and now she feared it was too late.

She wondered if she was doomed to lose everyone she loved.

But then she heard him say her name.

"Lydia... Lydia..." he called softly.

The numbness began to wear off, and the pain began to subside.

"How long has she been like this?" she heard him ask.

She recognized Kira's familiar low tone answering, "It's nearly an hour now. Stiles, she's not responding at all. She keeps staring ahead, like she can't hear me. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do...except to call you."

"Don't apologize. You did the right thing."

"Has this ever happened before?" Kira questioned anxiously.

"Uh...never like this," he coughed to clear his throat, "but I think if I... I need some time with her."

"Okay. I'll go downstairs...start cleaning up."

"Nah, it's late. We'll deal with it in the morning. You can take the guest bedroom across the hall."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"If you need anything..."

"I know. Thanks, Kira."

Lydia remembers their two voices, waning and waxing as they competed with the befuddling drone of noise that swarmed in her head. She remembers the arm around her, squeezing slightly, and a small hand smoothing her hair back. Her vision was still fuzzy, but she knew it was Kira.

"It will be alright, Lydia. Stiles is here," she soothed.

Her friend hesitantly let go, the warmth of her embrace departing with her when she got up from the chair they had been sharing. There was a series of barely perceptible footsteps, followed by the faint click of the door closing.

Then, Lydia remembers the touch she could distinguish from any other – Stiles's gentle hands cradling her face.

"Lyds... It's you and me now."

She knew what that meant. It meant: _We'll get through this together._

"Come on... Look at me. I need you to look at me," he pleaded.

She willed herself to blink, and his face came into clarity before anything else.

He was kneeling in front of her with a worried expression, his eyes watery and his bottom lip trembling as he continued to coax, "Just focus on my voice... Okay? I'm right here. I need you to be here too."

She hated seeing him so distressed. There had been far too much of that, more than she could bear, especially in recent months. She tried to respond, but there were so many things she wanted to say, all of it getting stuck in an infinite loop...somewhere between her heart, mind, and vocal cords.

Stiles kept talking to her; his words hurried but unmistakably coherent, "Don't disappear... You can't. Not when we still— You promised you wouldn't leave. Remember? Lydia, you promised," he quivered.

She remembered. She _had_ promised, and she had never broken a promise to Stiles. Never. She wasn't about to do so that night, so she broke through the final barrier, _for him._

"Stiles," she whispered, reaching between them to trace his crinkled brows with her index finger.

"Oh, Lydia..."

A single tear slid down his face and landed on her thigh.

"Stiles," she repeated.

"Yeah, I'm here." He moved to sit beside her, pulling her into a hug.

"Allison..."

"I know. I know."

She quaked in his arms, and he strengthened his grip. For a while, neither of them spoke; it was quiet, save for the sound of their shallow inhales and erratic exhales. She doesn't remember how much time passed as they clung to each other, only that she would have given anything to remain wedged in that uncomfortable, bright orange chair with Stiles.

But the next thing she knew, he was helping her up, his arm hooking her waist as he led her across the room.

"That's right. Hold on to me. I've got you," he coached.

Lydia put one unsteady foot in front of the other, certain that he was the only reason she was capable of standing.

He had held her like that at the funeral too, his support keeping her upright when she thought she would crumble. After the service, Stiles stood by her while everyone's well-intentioned platitudes and sympathetic looks were making her skin crawl with disgust and her blood boil with anger. She knew it infuriated him just as much, but he never let it show to anyone but her. When it all got to be too much for them both, he drove her home. In her bedroom, she finally broke down. Stiles didn't lie to her by saying everything would be okay, he cried right along with her. Then, he dried her tears, and got into bed with her, and held her _so tight_ she could scarcely breathe – just like she needed him to. He stayed with her all night. He was there when she woke in the morning. In the days after, when she dragged herself to school, grappling to regain some sense of normalcy, he was there too. But nothing felt normal anymore.

Lydia wanted to be better for him, to get back to where they were before the supernatural realm delivered two devastating blows – one that made Stiles doubt everything about himself, and another which took Allison away forever. It was the cruelest kind of tragedy. They had come _so close,_ but things seemed determined to change...in all of the wrong ways. Lydia didn't know how to handle losing one of her best friends, her first real friend. She didn't know how to help Stiles piece together what he said had broken inside of him. Most of all, she didn't know how to face the awful possibility that she was losing him too.

They were halfway to the door, and she remembers thinking that she shouldn't be leaning on him so much. It wasn't fair to either of them. She planted her feet next to the gory, red wine stains that marred the formerly pristine, white carpet.

"Lydia?"

"I can't. I have to listen. She's trying to tell me something."

"You need a break."

"But—"

"It's no use when you're this exhausted."

Her eyes shifted from Stiles, to the record player, and back to him.

"It's alright. You can try again in the morning. Come on..."

She let him lead her to her room at the end of the hallway, both of them stilling when they groped for the light switch at the same time.

Struggling not to think about how much that extra bit of contact affected her, Lydia coerced herself to keep moving. She kicked off her heels and slipped into a pair of chenille booties that she left by the bed, the loss of height making her hyperaware of how much smaller she was than Stiles. He was standing behind her, his figure protectively hovering. Although they were no longer touching, her body flushed with heat; after all, one didn't have to touch the sun to experience its warmth. Tether between them ever-present, she rotated towards him – this beautiful, kindhearted, brave, intelligent, sarcastic, yet unassuming boy whom she loved with her whole heart.

She loved Stiles. _She loved him,_ and she hated herself. For every tangled thread of logic she permitted to constrain her heart's desire. For every instance when she let Fear extend its far-reaching hand to cover her mouth. For every time she didn't say _I want to be with you._

Stiles was watching her carefully, his eyes searching...but for what, she couldn't guess. She thought she had at least showed him how much he meant to her. _Did he really not know?_ Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe he just didn't feel the same...

Lydia might have been convinced of it, but his touch indicated otherwise. Stiles touched her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him.

His fingers gingerly connected with the side of her neck, then he grazed her cheek with his thumb. "You must be so tired. Why don't you lie down?"

She remembers the way he folded back the covers and waited for her to get underneath. But she couldn't do it. She knew, this time, he wouldn't be climbing in next to her. This time, he wouldn't hold her all night, and he wouldn't be there in the morning either.

Suddenly, there wasn't enough oxygen; she couldn't breathe. Lydia shook her head and walked away, crossing to the opposite side of the room. Then, she swung open the French doors and stepped onto the balcony.

Stiles immediately followed, his larger stride easily catching up with her. "Lyds, what are you doing? Come away from there. It's not safe."

The guard rail was old and weather-beaten. A section of it, which had been damaged in the storm two months prior, had yet to be replaced.

She scoffed, shooting him an incredulous glare. _What difference did it make?_ There was nothing safe about their lives.

Ignoring his warning, she sat down, letting her legs hang over the edge. As she adjusted her skirt, a black one with a ditsy floral print, she realized that she was wearing the clothes she had on the day before. For a split second, she was embarrassed; Lydia Martin did not wear the same outfit two days in a row. The discomfort quickly passed when she considered her current situation. She had more important things to worry about.

She heard Stiles huff with frustration. Nevertheless, he sat next to her. She expected him to toss out a sardonic quip to break the ice, but he was quiet. Lydia remembers glancing at him over her shoulder, just in time to see the softness in his expression as he took her hand. It made her relearn everything she thought she knew about patience, and when he intertwined their fingers, like always...it almost broke her in two.

She averted her eyes but chose the wrong focal point, her stomach churning as she peered at the ground below. Lydia wasn't afraid of heights, but the sloping, damp, black earth seemed more like a bottomless pit. She could almost see her grief lurking within it, waiting to swallow her whole.

She felt like she was spiraling into the depths...until Stiles began stroking her index with his thumb, the familiar contact – a lifeline at the edge of the abyss.

Gripping his hand, she defiantly stared down, battling the impulse to pull her legs back onto the balcony, to shrink into a ball, and cry until she had nothing left.

"I know you miss her," he acknowledged with the same quality of compassion and care he offered in the weeks following their friend's death.

Lydia nodded.

She did. She missed Allison – so much.

 _I miss you too,_ she thought.

"And you're probably pretty annoyed at me...but you've gotta believe me – I didn't mean for things to get so out of control last night."

He put their joined hands on his knee, then curled his other hand around her forearm; a silent plea for forgiveness he need not seek.

"Stiles, I know."

"But they still did, and now...this place is a mess."

"It's not that. It's...everything." The admission made her shiver with cold, and she attempted to discreetly close her rust-colored cardigan with her empty hand.

He noticed, of course, and let go of her so he could remove his purple hoodie.

"Stiles, don't. You only have a tee shirt—"

Before she could protest any further, Stiles had draped it over her shoulders. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine."

 _I'm fine._ He had been saying that a bit too frequently for it to come across as credible.

She rolled her eyes.

Above, the full moon was compellingly bright. Its beams shone like a spotlight on the lake that stretched in front of them. It filtered through the fortress of trees that encircled them, highlighting every branch and every lacey cluster of lichen, and defining every budding leaf with the precision of an artist's brush. The surrounding area was hushed, save for the occasional song of a nearby nightingale and the murmur of the breeze stirring the midnight waters.

What should have been a perfect setting, was not because neither one of them were at peace. Stiles was just as troubled as Lydia. She could feel it, and she was pretty sure it ran deeper than his guilt over the impromptu party that had been dumped in her lap when a hoard of their classmates appeared on her doorstep.

"No, you're not," she contested as she worked her arms into his sleeves, eventually freeing her hands from the cuffs and zipping the hoodie closed.

There was a lengthy pause and an audible exhale, but he conceded, "You're right. I'm not fine," while despondently staring ahead. "How did we get here? After everything that's happened, everything we've been through..." he trailed off, clutching his jaw. He only did that when he was trying to contain his emotions.

Actively persuading him to finish his thought, Lydia gently pried his hand from his face. "Stiles?"

"I hate this. I hate that I remind you of everything that went wrong."

She never imagined _that_ was the reason he was becoming so distant.

"That's not true. You don't—"

He went on, raspy tension in his voice. "I feel like I'm hurting you...just by being around you...but, Lydia, I can't keep this up. I don't know how to stay away from you. I love...what we have _too much_ to let it go."

She remembers what it felt like to hear those words. Words that implied so much more. Words that sent her mind and heart reeling with a whirlwind of emotion because they meant: _Stiles wanted to be with her too_. She remembers him, lowering his head and nervously scratching at the nape of his neck while his cheeks reddened.

"Stiles, stop. Look at me." She set her palm firmly between his shoulders, waiting until he timidly lifted his eyes to meet hers. "You always read me so well, but you're wrong about this. I don't want you to stay away. Ever since Allison... I don't know how to..." she struggled to explain. "I've never lost someone so close to me. I hurt all the time..." she paused, swallowing thickly, "but it fades when you're with me."

He seemed perplexed by her response...like he figured something out a moment too late. She tried not to let that divert her attention.

"You always know what to say to me," she resumed, reaching across with her left to clasp his hand, "even if that means...just holding my hand and saying nothing at all. I never have to pretend when I'm with you because I know I can trust you. _You_ are the person I trust most in the world. Being with you reminds me of what is _right_ in my life," she affirmed, touching the side of his face. "And, you know...when we're not bickering, you actually make me laugh."

Lydia remembers his smile – slow to take shape but raw, and real, and beautiful. She remembers his cheek rising under her palm and the beat of his lashes against her thumb. Relief flooded through her as she realized she was getting through to him. She remembers wanting to make sure he would never doubt how important he was to her. So, she ignored the annoying inner discourse which told her that she had already said too much, and she kept going.

"I need you. I need my best friend. That's what we were before all of it. That's what we _still_ are." She inhaled a shaky breath. "I need you," she repeated. "I can't do this without you, Stiles. I don't want to."

"I need you too, Lydia," he asserted, carefully reaching for her upper arms. "I'm sorry. I should have talked to you about this sooner. I'm so messed up right now. I'm in way over my head with...everything. It's like I'm...trapped...by the mistakes I've made, and I'm just trying to get through the day without losing it. You know?"

"Yeah, I do. That's how I felt last year...but I had this amazing person in my life, someone who helped me get past it."

"Allison," he assumed.

She smiled affectionately. "I meant you."

He glanced down, brows pinched together, lips slightly parted as he gasped for a small intake of air.

"Of course, Allison helped me. She helped me a lot but...last summer, when I was learning about this whole crazy supernatural world, she was in France. She needed to cope with losing her mom and her breakup with Scott. She supported me as much as she could from six thousand miles away, but you were here... _with me,_ explaining everything and helping me make as much sense of it as I could. You were so patient, and you never once treated me like I was some sort of a project or an obligation."

"I could never see you like that," he assured her, adjusting his grasp on her arms and looking into her eyes. "I _wanted_ to help you."

"And you did. I don't think I tell you enough how much that's meant to me."

"Yeah, you do." He pushed her hair behind her shoulder, his hand finding a comfortable position at the curve of her spine. "I want to help you now, too. I want to be better for you, but I don't know how."

"You don't need to be better. You just need to be you."

She invited him closer, both arms winding around his torso as he balanced them where they sat on rough wooden planks.

"I'm not sure I know who that is anymore. I used to be able to trust my instincts but...lately, half of what I do and say doesn't even feel or sound like me. Hardly anything feels right anymore."

She hugged him tighter. "This still feels right though... Doesn't it?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "It always has, Lyds."

"So then...maybe we build...on this."

He released a protracted exhale, nodding in agreement before he leaned back. One of his hands moved to cup the base of her skull, then he pressed his lips to her forehead in a tender, lingering kiss. She remembers the impression of his smile forming against her skin.

"Could we maybe build on it from over there...so we don't fall off the balcony?" he inquired, motioning towards the house.

His request liberated an ember of happiness inside of her. One that ignited and flourished whenever he was with her. One that perforated the darkness and splattered it with light.

She giggled, "See, I told you, you know how to get me to laugh."

He pulled her back from the edge with solid arms and a crooked grin, then held her so tight she could scarcely breathe – just like she wanted him to.

"Wait here," he instructed. "I have an idea."

She watched him step into her room, gather some old blankets from the teal blue storage trunk at the foot of her bed, and return to her side. He spread the blankets over the floorboards and gestured for her to come closer. She willingly joined him, and together, they sat with their backs propped against the exterior wall of the house, subtle scent of cedar shiplap perfuming the air. Within seconds, their bodies reacclimated; Stiles put his arm around her, and Lydia nestled her head on his shoulder. It felt just like she remembered. It felt perfect.

After a few minutes of stillness, Lydia spoke. "So, how'd things go with your dad?"

"Uh...okay I guess," he replied. "There was a lot to explain obviously...with the code you transcribed and...everything."

"Right."

She nervously fiddled with the hem of her skirt. Clearly by "everything", Stiles was referring to the list she decrypted with Allison's name, the one that was more accurately termed a _dead pool._ Even clearer, he had selectively avoided those words because he understood how much they terrified her. He wanted to protect her...like always, and that was one of the many things that made him the one person in the world with whom she could share her true feelings.

"Stiles..."

"Hmm..."

"My name is on that list...along with Scott and Kira."

"I know."

"And half the people on that list are already..."

"I know...and whoever killed Demarco was in _this house_ last night," he gritted through his teeth, shudder of fury punctuating his statement.

"Yeah, there's that too."

"Lydia, listen to me..." He gave her a reassuring squeeze, and she lifted her head to make eye contact. "I screwed up last night, but there is _no way_ anyone is getting near you. I'm not gonna let that happen."

She knew he meant it, and that consoled her beyond measure.

Blinking back the tears that swiftly invaded her eyes, she pursed her lips and nodded. "We need those other two keys, so we know what we're really up against. There has to be something I'm missing...some clue. If I could just—"

"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself," he interrupted. "I know you're trying."

She had tried to save Allison, tried to tell Stiles she loves him, but she failed and now...

"It's not enough."

Pensively, he sucked in his lower lip and released it. "Well, you don't have to do it on your own... Maybe that's our next step. Let me help you with the cipher keys. We could figure it out together...like we always do. What do you think?"

She missed that so much – hours upon hours, working closely with Stiles – the natural rapport between them, brainstorming and bouncing ideas off each other, finishing each other's sentences, supporting each other when they were about to give up, but also knowing when to take breaks and how to put each other at ease. There was no learning curve when it came to those interactions, their connection – uniquely effortless, completely unparalleled, and unmistakably...right. How could she refuse?

"I'd like that."

"Good. Me too," he said sincerely before his voice modified to a lighter, teasing tone. "I should warn you though...it might take a while."

She was unaware of what he was hinting at until he added, "You sure you can uh...tolerate spending so much time with a teenage boy?"

Then, she remembered the previous afternoon, the pang of jealousy that caused her to blurt out that she was _done with teenage boys_. Heat rose in her cheeks and she knew she was blushing, but the embarrassment was quickly offset by the satisfaction of knowing her comment had bothered Stiles enough to mention it.

"Oh, _that."_

"Did you mean it?"

"Yeah, I did," she answered truthfully.

"Oh."

She remembers the volumes of unconcealed disappointment he conveyed in a single syllable, and the glimmer of hope that it sent rushing through her veins.

Bringing her knees up to her chest and tucking into him a bit more, she nudged him with her elbow. "It's a good thing you're not just a teenage boy," she clarified.

He playfully narrowed his eyes – a challenge. "What exactly am I then?"

"You're a Stiles."

"And that means?"

"You're the exception."

He bit his lip to minimize a smile. "Good to know," he remarked while tugging at the drawstring on the hoodie she wore. _His hoodie._

A familiar wave of shyness, one that only Stiles could inspire, struck Lydia as she watched him. She lowered her head a little, but their eyes remained locked. She remembers the way her heart leapt when he took her chin between his thumb and index, tilting her head up an inch or so.

That's when she saw it.

Her eyes widened. "Stiles, look..."

His gaze followed hers, looking up to where a shooting star was falling slowly through the night sky.

Their eyes met with astonished fascination.

"Should we make a wish?" he suggested.

An eager _Yes_ was forming on the tip of her tongue when the cynic in her sought control, skeptically quirking her mouth to withhold it.

Shooting stars were really just meteors, tiny particles of dust and debris, burning as they enter Earth's atmosphere. This one happened to have a red glow, which meant it most likely consisted of nitrogen. Sure, it was pretty, but it didn't possess any magical powers. It couldn't give her what she wanted most. And anyway, wishes, they didn't really come true... _Did they?_

Lydia remembers thinking that if anyone could get her to believe in the power of wishes, it would be Stiles.

He seemed to know it. "Come on... Things won't always be as dark as they have been. We can still wish for things... Can't we?"

There was such an optimistic cadence to his voice, such excitement in his eyes. She couldn't resist the energy they emitted; it was utterly and irrevocably contagious.

"Yeah," she smiled. "We can."

"Okay. Close your eyes."

"You first," she insisted. She wanted to admire him unreservedly...even just for a moment.

Corners of his mouth twitching higher, he obliged.

It nipped at her heart to see him like that – violet shadows beneath his eyes diminished, sharp angles of his cheekbones softened. He was healthy again and hopeful too. His mutual trust in her was as apparent as the relaxed expression on his face...and her love for him grew.

She remembers touching her forehead to his, tips of their noses inadvertently bumping. She remembers her chest swelling with a deep, fulfilling inhale.

"Ready?" she exhaled.

"Uh-huh."

"On the count of three... One..."

"Two," Stiles chimed in, whisper of his breath kissing her lips.

"Three."

Lydia made her wish, reverently and wholeheartedly.

She marveled at the clandestine serenity that came from being so close to him, then reluctantly pulled away. Her lids fluttered open, and she found that his eyes were already fixed on hers. In them, dwelled the same mix of wonder and recognition she had seen on the day she kissed him.

"Do you really think our wishes will come true?" she asked over the tightness in her throat.

"I think..." he said, taking her hand, "when it comes to you and me...anything is possible."

For the first time in months, she smiled an honest, unburdened, and vibrant smile.

If Stiles believed, she could do the same. Their bond was the best thing in her life. No matter what, she wouldn't give up on him, on what they shared, on what they could be _together._ However long the wait, being with him would be worth it. Of that, she was certain.

With both arms encompassing her, he encouraged her to lean on him again. She put her head back on his shoulder, and that was how they remained for the rest of the night.

Despite everything she was going through, Lydia was relaxed and happy...because of Stiles.

Because somehow, even in the darkest of times, they always found the light. Together.

Because everything she felt _for him,_ and everything she felt _from him,_ was the same as it ever was.

And what she felt was love.

She remembers thinking that maybe he felt it too.

* * *

 **Present Day**

"Should we make a wish?" Stiles asks, drawing Lydia closer.

This time, there is no hesitancy in her when she responds, "Yes, definitely."

He touches his forehead to hers, shows her that he remembers everything too. "On the count of three... One..." he begins.

"Two," she continues.

"Three," they say together.

Lydia makes her wish. The very same one she made on the night in her memory.

Then years of loving and longing, of patience and faith, years of an unbreakable emotional tether and an extraordinary unspoken connection, years of being there – no matter what, of never giving up, and of finding their way back to each other...all of it collides in a passionate kiss.

The fireworks have yet to start, but Lydia sees a spectrum of light, radiant in every hue of the rainbow, flashing before her eyes. Stiles whispers to her in between kisses, tells her he loves her, always has, always will.

When they part, bond between them ever intensifying, the spirited crackle of fireworks calls their attention to the sky. Together they watch as it blooms into a garden of light, every shape and pattern from dahlias and peony, to chrysanthemum and willow. There are snowflakes and waterfalls raining down too, even butterfly wings that morph into shimmering leaves. Every season of their love reflected in a captivating display that glistens and shines _almos_ t as brilliantly as the spark that blazes in their hearts – one that will never burn out.

Lydia turns to Stiles, his beautiful face alight with colors that match the fireworks in his eyes.

"I read somewhere that if two people wish for the same thing on the same star, it's more likely to come true," she says, sudden shy timbre of her own voice almost unrecognizable.

He smiles, and she knows he understands the curiosity and vulnerability in her statement.

"What did you wish for that night, Lyds?"

She kisses him softly, then puts her head on his shoulder. "I wished for you...for _us."_

"I wished for the same, angel," he confides, resting his cheek on her temple.

His words fill her with irrepressible joy and gratitude. They've come so far from where they were on the night in her memory. Wishing and hoping is one thing; it's wonderful and special in its own right. But being with Stiles is her reality now...and nothing could ever compare to the contentment of getting to share her life with him, knowing that they belong to each other and always will.

She hugs him, holds him close, giving him all her love in every kiss and caress that comes after. And Stiles, he gives his right back, lets her know he is with her and is never letting go.

Lydia pictures them, years into the future – still holding on to each other, still finding a light in the dark. Just the two of them...always and always, and still looking up.

There is nothing she wants more.


	24. Something Beautiful

My heart's pounding in my head so loud  
Drowns out the low hum of the city  
Gold lights up the clouds over head  
Like sun behind your eyes  
It's only time, going by  
It's only time  
Ain't it something beautiful?  
Something beautiful  
\- Something Beautiful by Hilary Grist

* * *

Lydia gets headaches – both a lingering side effect and an unwelcome reminder of those awful days, just eight months ago, when she was confined to the closed unit of Eichen House.

As if she needs a reminder. As if the trauma and agony she suffered inside that hellish place hadn't been enough…

For twenty-six days, she was trapped within the maze-like parameters of her mind, held against her will, and oh yeah...experimented on by a madman with the soulless purpose of amplifying the abilities she had been striving to manage for well over a year. For twenty-six days, she was kept away from her life and everything she cared about – away from school, away from her friends, away from the boy she loved.

Now, Lydia gets headaches, and though not a frequent occurrence, when they strike, they leave her bedridden, bleary-eyed, and silently pleading for the time to pass until it's over.

Today is one of those days. There is nothing she can do about it.

That is why, even though it's nearly noon, Lydia is still in her pajamas, still in bed, still unsuccessfully trying to fall back to sleep.

She is secured underneath the covers with Prada beside her, and she has no intention of moving. All of the shades on her windows are drawn, barring any bright sun rays from entering her room and casting an even harsher light on her misery. Slowly, she takes deliberate breaths, in and out. With one hand, she twirls the ends of her pup's perky, butterflied ears, slight but reassuring weight of her little body pressing into Lydia's ribs. With the other, she clutches her silver heart pendant, thumb repeatedly grazing over Stiles's initials.

She misses him, always does when they are apart, but it's harder to bear when she feels like this. The ache in her chest is only worsened by the relentless throb in her head. It's as though the natural rhythm of her beats, are being reset by the pounding in her temporal lobe, making it feel like he is farther away.

Burrowing deeper into her pillow, she uncovers a glimmer of relief in another deliberate inhale. Stiles slept there two nights ago, and it still smells like him. She holds her breath, keeps the sweet remnant of him within her lungs for as long as she can, then gradually releases it, pushing back against the discomfort in her head.

Lydia is fully aware that her situation could be worse. People don't go through something like trepanation without facing serious adverse consequences. Anything from infections to stroke, from abscesses to permanent brain tissue damage, even generalized encephalitis, epilepsy, or...death.

All things considered, she is lucky it's only headaches.

Only headaches. The kind that she can feel coming on from the moment she opens her eyes in the morning. Long-lasting ones that start with a tingling on the left side of her head and which progress in intensity until she can hardly sit up without succumbing to a spell of dizziness. Splitting headaches which make it difficult for her to concentrate, that magnify every unpleasant sound, and which make her hyper-sensitive to nearly every gradation of light...

Save for one. A light that captivates and soothes her. A soft golden light – the one she always sees in Stiles's eyes. She would give anything to see it right now. To see him.

But he is not there, and she won't call him. Not today.

Today, he is at Canon Creek with Noah, and there is no way she is interrupting their first father-son weekend since Stiles came home.

 _It's only a headache,_ she repeats like a mantra.

She tells herself to be grateful. _And she is._ Of course, she is grateful.

She survived.

That time, that place, what happened to her inside those loathsome walls – none of it broke her.

She survived for weeks, on will alone. Weeks in which she persistently fought the hopelessness that sought to destroy her, the murmur of voices that taunted her – insisting that all of her friends were doomed to die and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Weeks when she yearned to be tucked into her own bed with Prada at her side, and when the only things keeping Lydia warm were her memories and the enduring promise of a love that flamed pure gold in her heart.

She survived because of her friends. Her amazing friends who collectively risked their lives for her, refusing to let her be used like a pawn in a turbulent supernatural power struggle. Like Scott, who reassembled their pack, one member at a time, because he believed they were stronger as a group but valued them as individuals too. Like Kira, who confronted her fears, harnessing her somewhat unpredictable powers to cause a brownout that would disable a normally impenetrable security system. And Liam, who cemented a place in Stiles's esteem when he volunteered to let Scott hit him to provoke an anger-induced shift – so he could break through a locked gate that would have prevented Stiles from getting to her.

She survived because of Stiles. The bravest, smartest, most resilient person she will ever know. The one who came up with the entire plan and who was anything but defeated when things didn't go accordingly. He overcame every obstacle to find his way back to her...even though she told him it was too dangerous, even though it meant putting up with someone he despises. Because Stiles said he wouldn't leave her. Because he wanted to bring her home. To him. To what they have together. And he did. Beyond that, his incorruptible heart kept hers beating, tether between them pulling her back when she faded into oblivion.

Now, she gets to love him. Every single day, and in every possible way.

Like by not calling him, even though it's what she longs to do.

She catches herself – gaze reflexively landing on her phone, hand roaming towards it...

Quickly, she closes her eyes and sets her hand on Prada's back, stubborn not to falter in her resolve. Instead, she thinks of Stiles, of their unforgettable road trip to San Francisco and the idyllic hours they've spent at Beryl Cove. She thinks of ice skating and the flavor of peanut butter cups on their tongues, and of the shooting stars and brilliant fireworks they watched just two days ago. She thinks of laughing with him and holding hands with him, of hugging and kissing him. She thinks of last week – making love on the floor of his room in the mid-afternoon heat; both so desperate for each other, they never made it to the bed. She thinks of sleeping and waking in his arms, of holding each other through nightmares and tears. She thinks of the way he touched her face when he said good-bye yesterday morning, of the sensation of his breath filling her lungs, and of the way his lips reduced pressure on hers only long enough to mouth an inaudible _I love you_ – one that she felt resonate in every cell of her body _._ She thinks of the fact that each time they part, it's a bit harder to let him go, thinks of him looking back at her – once to offer a flawless crooked smile, then a second time to blow her a kiss. She thinks of the moment she pressed her fingertips to her smile to show him it reached her and how slowly he drove away in his Jeep. She thinks of how fifteen minutes later, he called to let her know he got home safe and to remind her of how happy she makes him.

She thinks she could get through just about anything, including this headache, if she keeps focusing on Stiles and the unfailing, all-encompassing love he shows her.

But the shrill sound of her neighbor's circular saw cuts through Lydia's positive progression of thought. Even with the windows closed, the disruptive noise assaults her sensitive ears with a high-pitched screech. Suddenly, she hears the instrument Valack used during the trepanation. She can practically see him looming over her with the drill and feel the excruciating pain of its jagged-metal teeth grinding into her skull.

It hurts. It hurts so badly she could _scream._

She clamps her jaw shut, her body beginning to quake with the effort it takes to contain her voice. Her eyes are leaking tears. They slide back towards her pillow, hot and uncontrollable in a way that mimics the nauseating trickle of blood that had oozed along her scalp after the terrifying procedure.

It's too much. She wants Stiles. She knows if she could just see him or hear him say a single word to her, the pain wouldn't be able to assert such an oppressive grip.

Her need for him tugs with fierce determination. She is about to give in, to pick up her phone or cry out his name...as if that will magically make him appear before her.

At precisely the same moment, three hushed notes float across the room. "Ly-di-a," they chant, smothering the racket and easing her pain as swiftly as a breath blows out a candle, leaving behind nothing but a wispy trail of smoke.

Her eyes flash open, and Stiles comes into view.

He is standing in her doorway, silhouette in partial shadow, aura of diffused light glinting off his shoulders.

He looks like an angel.

At first, she blinks, convinced that what she sees is strictly a manifestation of her heart's truest desire.

 _It can't be him_.

But it _has to be_. She can feel him.

Reaching out with a trembling arm, Lydia beckons him closer. When his fingertips greet hers, the shaking stops and any dampening trace of doubt evaporates from her mind.

 _He is real._ She knew it.

"Stiles…" she exhales, linking their digits.

He kneels by the bed, one hand locked with hers while the other skims her cheek, then strokes her hair before he carefully drapes his arm over her.

"Hey, beautiful," he greets her, ever so softly.

She feels about as far from beautiful as she can imagine. Her hair is mangled from tossing and turning, and she is in dire need of a shampoo. She is sticky with sweat and her face must be pale and drawn, but she can't help smiling at him through tears. Her palm and fingers wriggle their way up to his wrist...then to his elbow...and shoulder...and finally, the side of his neck, where she finds his pulse and waits for hers to match it.

"You're here."

"I'm here."

"Stiles..."

Maneuvering her hand to the back of his head, she encourages him nearer...until their noses are touching. The nearer he is, the farther her pain.

He starts kissing her face, string of little pecks that, by sensation alone, are surely tinting her cheeks red.

She wants to ask him so many things: _How did he know? How did he get to her so fast? How is he so perfect?_ But she only manages to squeak out, "How?" over the tightness in her throat.

No sooner has the incomplete question passed her lips, than Lydia realizes she already knows the comprehensive answer: _Because he is Stiles._

His response only proves to vindicate her faith in their connection. "I had this...feeling...like a heaviness in my chest when I woke up. I knew something was wrong, that I had to come back," he explains, voice never elevating above a whisper. "You're having one of your headaches… Aren't you?"

She purses her lips, and a few more tears shake loose as she nods in silent admission.

"How bad?"

"Almost as bad as the last one."

"Aww…Lyds." His sigh breezes over her wet cheeks, alleviating the heat that is trapped within them.

"But it hurts less since you got here," she adds.

The room is dim, muted colors veiled by a haze of shadow, but she can clearly see the light in his eyes brightening as he smiles at her. He gives her one more tiny kiss, barely caressing her bottom lip, but he lingers...and her stomach swirls with a whirlpool of warmth. It swells and floods her body, submerging her pain while keeping her heart, and her lungs, and her thoughts afloat with the purifying influence of his affection.

"How long have you been awake?" he asks.

"Um...since around eight."

"Yeah, me too." His mouth reshapes, quickly flickering from a pout to a frown. "I guess it's safe to assume you weren't going to call me."

There is a twinge of tension in his statement, one so frail that it might be undetectable...if she didn't know him so well.

"I almost did," she informs him, anxious to neutralize any hurt she might have caused.

He is quiet. She knows he won't pursue the issue when she is in this state, but she also doesn't want anything left unsaid between them. There has been too much of that in the past.

"Stiles, listen—"

"It's alright, we can talk about it later," he says in a distinctly forbearing tone. "Right now, you need to rest."

"No, I can't. Not until you hear this... It's important," she insists, lightly raking her nails across the nape of his neck. "You know there is only _one_ reason why I didn't call. You know that... Don't you?"

"I do, and I love you for it."

He bows his head, lips conforming to her knuckles, and Lydia takes the opportunity to kiss the crown of his head. She can feel him struggling to compose himself, but eventually he makes eye contact.

Keeping his jaw pressed to the back of her hand, he resumes, "But also...it breaks my heart to think of you going through this without me – again. All those months...I couldn't be here for you. I _want_ to be here now."

"And I want you here. Stiles, I want you so much... But what about your dad? This was his first weekend off since we got you back...and you've already missed so much time together. I didn't want to ruin it because of a headache. It's not my first, probably won't be the last either."

His brows pinch together in dismay. "Baby, come on... First of all, you could _never_ ruin anything...especially not by telling me you want me with you," he assures her. "And second, this isn't just an average headache. Do you think, for one minute, that my dad would be okay knowing you were alone here...feeling like this?"

He wouldn't. Lydia is certain of that. If the way he has treated her – not only in the last six weeks, but ever since she and Stiles became friends – if that is any indication of how much he cares, then she is one, very fortunate girl. Because Noah treats her like she matters, like he can't imagine his or his son's life without her in it. He treats her, not just like part of their family, but like she is his own daughter.

"No," she gulps down a sob of emotion, "he wouldn't, but I was trying to... I thought I could handle it, just this once."

"How?"

"I was thinking about you...about us... Stiles, it was working. Not as well as being with you, but it was working...until my neighbor started using that stupid electric saw."

"And then?"

"I had a flashback..."

"Of Eichen House," he finishes for her, tone even more forgiving than before. "That must have been awful."

"Yeah, I kinda lost it after that. I was so scared, and all I wanted was you. I was reaching for the phone, but it turns out...I didn't have to. You were here."

He strokes her hair again, hand protectively guarding the vulnerability that scars the left side of her head. Then, he leans in to kiss the bridge of her nose. When he looks back at her, his eyes are glossy and he is giving her an upside-down smile.

"I'm in awe of you, Lydia Martin. You are, without a doubt, the bravest person I have ever known."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. Selfless too."

She shakes her head. "I just want you to have...everything," she confides.

"I do. I've got everything I need," he affirms with another sweet kiss, "and just so you know, there isn't any better reason to come home than to be with you."

Tender adoration saturates his every word. Words that dilute the guilt she feels and which remind her that no matter what, Stiles will always choose to come home to her.

"I love you. Stiles, I love you."

"I love you back."

"And you forgive me... Right?"

"There's nothing to forgive." He bumps her nose with his. "Now, let's tackle this headache. Just you and me...and Prada."

At the sound of her name, the toy spaniel sits up, proudly puffing out her chest and quirking her ears as if to say, _It's about time someone paid attention to me._

They quietly laugh at her playful and innocent, albeit melodramatic, tendencies.

"She missed you...you know," Lydia informs Stiles as they pet her. "Yesterday, she kept bringing me that ball you got for her."

"That's adorable," Stiles chuckles as he scratches behind Prada's ears. "I missed you too, Prada. We'll play later. Okay?"

She nuzzles his hand, while he turns to Lydia.

"But first, I'm making _you_ some of Deaton's willow bark tea. Then, I'm coming right back, and the three of us are going to curl up together. And, Lyds, I'm not letting you go until you're one hundred percent yourself...and even then, I'm gonna keep holding you because we have like an _entire_ day's worth of kissing to make up for."

"Yes, please – to all of that," Lydia smiles.

Stiles kisses her head, so gently that she feels it more in her heart than on the surface of her skin. "Be back in a few," he reassures before rising from the floor, toeing off his sneakers by the closet, and heading down the hall.

* * *

Within five minutes, he returns with a tray which he sets on the nightstand. He pours Lydia a cup of tea and tests it to make sure it's not too hot, then carefully helps her sit up.

She leans against Stiles and takes a sip, cup warm in her hands, his ardent regard even warmer.

"How's that?"

"Good, thanks," she replies, looking up at him.

Once Lydia finishes her tea, Stiles takes the cup from her. She tries to stifle a yawn, but to no avail. These headaches wear her out every time. She is dreadfully tired, and he knows it, already encouraging her under the covers and adjusting the pillows for her.

"That's it... Just give me one sec," he says as she lies down without reluctance.

She waits as he removes his phone from his pocket and leaves it on the nightstand. He unbuckles his belt, takes off his khakis, and hangs them over the footboard before crawling into bed in his tee shirt and boxers. Reclining with his back propped on her headboard and his legs out in front of him, he opens his arms for her without delay. She turns onto her side and nestles her head on his shoulder, sighing as his limbs completely envelop her. Prada soon joins them, coiling up in a ball near Lydia's knees.

The comfort of being surrounded by love starts to settle in, and she wants to let it, to absorb every ounce of solace and never let it go. It feels good. Really good...and familiar...and she starts to remember...

Her mind wants to take her into the past, but she hangs on to the present a little while longer – for Stiles.

"I'm so glad you're here," she tells him, reaching up to caress his face.

"Me too," he answers, turning in to kiss her palm. "It's alright now. You're never going through this without me again."

Drowsiness continuing to subdue her, she nods, hand falling slowly from his jaw to his chest where it finds its place over his heart.

"Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," he promises, and then she lets herself remember.

 _She remembers a night in November, when Stiles gave her a remarkable gift..._

* * *

She remembers this night in pieces, her exhausted mind drifting in and out of consciousness.

A repetitive beep stirred Lydia awake. Her eyes sluggishly opened; lids heavy as she waited for her vision to clear. She remembers the sterile, synthetically lit room, which she quickly identified as one of the intensive care units in Beacon Hills Memorial.

She was in the hospital, and the noise she heard was her heart monitor.

Inhaling slowly, she took in her surroundings. The space was small and cramped with medical equipment. It had tiled walls, swinging doors on either side, and a glass block transom window that bled in more artificial light from the hallway. All of it, far too familiar. All of it, the same as the last time she was there, after what happened with Tracy. But that was two months prior, and for a minute, Lydia couldn't remember why she was in the hospital. _Again._

Her mouth was dry, so she tried to swallow but the soreness in her throat made her wince.

That's when it came to her in frighteningly vivid detail...

* * *

She had been at the Sheriff's Station with Noah, and they were taking a recess from discussing Beacon Hills most recent supernatural crisis. Lydia remembered having coffee in the break room while she texted with Stiles, who had left shortly before to meet with Scott, Liam, and Deaton. She remembered the last thing he wrote to her:

 _I'll be there soon. Try not to miss me too much._

She smiled at the winking face emoji he included and was about to respond when an unexpected and brief exchange of gunfire demanded her attention. She remembered the cold tingle that zipped up her spine.

 _Noah!_

Without a second thought, she headed for the squad room, where she walked in on a confrontation between Sebastien Valet, Officer Clark, and the Sheriff. Noah was crawling on the floor, reaching for his handgun, and Sebastien had his sinister eyes set on him.

Before Lydia could take a step to intervene, Sebastien turned towards her. She caught sight of his pointed fangs and heard his ferocious growl, but she held her ground, preparing to strike back as he lifted his claws to her.

She remembered the sound of her own scream and the force it took for her to repel him. He flew across the room, slamming into a wall, then landing on his back with a thud.

The fleeting moment of relief that ensued was instantly eclipsed by the white-hot pain that struck the left side of her throat. Lydia remembered her hands, reflexively covering the wound she had sustained, and the sinking feeling that the ground beneath her was giving way as she dropped to her knees.

She saw red. Red like the tee shirt Stiles wore that day. _Stiles._

After that, there was nothing.

Nothing but darkness and a sense of weightlessness...

Until...

A familiar parental tone breached the void, "Hang on, Lydia. Almost there... Come on, sweetheart, you have to stay awake."

Noah was carrying her through the hospital doors. His expression conveyed worry and uncertainty, but the strength of his arms was absolute; he held her close to his chest, preventing her body from jostling too violently as he hastened his stride towards the nurses' station.

Lydia remembered her hands. They were still clasped to her neck in what felt like a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. She could feel it slipping through her fingers and spreading as it soaked into her blouse. She tried to stay calm to prevent her heart rate from spiking and speeding along the process, but it seemed impossible. Lydia was anything but calm – she was profoundly afraid. She remembered being thoroughly conscious of the fact that she had lost a lot of blood. _Too much blood._

She remembered the spokes of Noah's gold shield, poking into her right shoulder, giving her something to focus on. That shield had more than the obvious significance to its credit. An image of Stiles holding that token in his palm flashed through her mind. She could practically hear his quivering voice say,

 _Um...I got my dad's badge. Jennifer kind of crushed it...in her hand, so I tried hammering it out a bit... Still doesn't look great._

She remembered the faith Stiles put in her that night, the way he trusted her to pull him back from the depths of a watery grave. She wondered if he knew that she needed him just as much, that without him there, she was finding it hard to breathe.

"Ssst..." she hissed.

The amount of energy she had to exert to produce that small sound was unnatural. She was cold and tired...very tired. As a result, keeping her hands in place on her throat was becoming a chore.

"Melissa!" she heard Noah call. _"Melissa!"_

It was the most rattled she had witnessed his voice and demeanor since Stiles was missing. _Stiles._

She wondered if she would ever see him again. She had to. After everything, it couldn't end like this – with her bleeding to death in his father's arms. _Could it?_

"Get her on a gurney," Melissa directed.

Noah carefully set Lydia down, and Melissa leaned over her, speaking to her in a firm yet gentle tone.

"Lydia, honey, it's okay. You're going to be just fine," she assured her, as she adeptly placed a handful of thick gauze over her neck and applied pressure to the wound for her. Then, she shifted her eyes to Noah. "Let's go."

Noah drew up the guard-rail and hurried alongside the stretcher. As he and Melissa wheeled her to the emergency room bay, Lydia's eyes rolled upwards where fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Their cold white glare was a harsh contrast from the warm amber hue she was aching to see. They made her want to shut her eyes, but she fought to stay awake.

In one last effort to communicate, she fumbled for Noah's wrist. Skin slick with blood, she was unable to latch on to him, but he caught her palm with both of his hands and held it tightly.

"Ssst... St—" she sputtered, eyes wide with a flare of panic as she looked up at Noah.

And he understood.

"He's on his way. I called him from the car. Stiles will be here soon. I promise."

Wherever he was, it felt too far away. She wanted him there. _With her._ There were tears in her eyes and a sharp tug in her chest, but she forced a smile.

"Noah, this is as far as you can go," Melissa said sympathetically. "Dr Geyer and I will take it from here. I'll update you as soon as I can."

Lydia remembered the cloud of drowsiness moving in, her eyelids getting heavier and heavier.

Noah bent down to kiss her forehead. "Hang in there, kid. We both need you," he whispered in a way that could only be described as loving.

She remembered his kind face. The face of the man whom she pictures whenever she thinks of the word _Dad_. The man who has been there for her more times than she can count, who willingly opened his home to her, and who trusted her with his most precious treasure – his son.

 _Stiles –_ who was once again, the first and the last thought on her mind.

Then the cloud settled over, and everything faded to black...

* * *

Lydia remembers her rapid heartbeats, thudding against her rib cage and transmitting through the monitor as she recalled the trauma she had experienced. She tried to slow her breathing, but icy fragments of fear were clinging to her bones, making her feel sick with cold everywhere.

Everywhere...except for one hand, which was being held by Stiles, and the left side of her ribs where Stiles had planted his forehead.

He was sitting in a chair that was pulled right next to her hospital bed, and he was stroking her index finger with his thumb – a tangible reminder that he was with her and he wasn't letting go. Even in sleep, he was the most communicative person she ever knew. His forehead was crinkled, eyebrows cinched together, lips parted and occasionally twitching. She recognized that expression. It's the same one he has when he is contemplating some clue, processing it through the inexhaustible scope of his mind, delving beneath the surface to find the truth. The same way he so often looks at her.

She kept her eyes on him; the sight of him so sweet, she couldn't help but smile. Gradually, her inhales and exhales evened out, and her heart rhythm returned to a normal pace. She focused on the way his warmth was flowing through her. She remembers what it felt like – like that first mild day of the year, when the sunlight shines at a slightly different angle, when the colors of the landscape appear just a little brighter, when spring is so close...she can practically reach out and touch it. It felt absurdly good. Lydia wanted to retain that sensation for as long as possible, so she decided that she wasn't letting go of Stiles either.

She remembers debating whether or not to wake him. The dryness in her throat was becoming unbearable. There was a cup on the bedside table, but she couldn't reach it. As if he were aware of her indecision, Stiles squeezed Lydia's hand, and she took it as a sign...

But she was determined to wake him gently this time.

Earlier that evening, when he fell asleep on the couch in his dad's office, she had poked his forehead with her finger. Granted, he told her to. _If I nod off, just poke me,_ he had said. But Lydia still felt guilty about it. Stiles would never wake her like that. He was always so gentle with her.

She tenderly set her free hand atop his head and began lightly combing her fingers through the messy tufts of his hair.

His eyes immediately opened, and his head lifted from her rib cage as he gasped her name, _"Lydia..."_

After that, his whole body sprang into action, standing and pushing the chair away in one swift motion. Her smile blossomed when she saw that he was primed to lunge towards her, then faded as he reined himself in, approaching her more carefully...as if he had just considered that she was in a hospital bed, connected to an IV line and a bunch of electrodes. She remembers wishing he had done it anyway.

He maintained his grip on her left hand and reached for her shoulder with the other. "You're awake," he said softly.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, so she made a second attempt and managed to utter one syllable. "Wa—"

"Thirsty?"

She nodded.

"Dr Geyer says you can only have ice chips for now. Okay?" he explained.

Already feeling hindered by her limitations, she pursed her arid lips and nodded again. Then, she watched Stiles take a piece of ice and offer it to her. She parted her lips as he skated the frozen liquid from side to side. As it melted, droplets of water began to quench her parched mouth. He continued until the fragment was too small for him to hold. It slipped between her lips, where it finished dissolving on her tongue.

Lydia closed her eyes, cautiously swallowing, before extinguishing a relieved sigh.

"Better?" he asked.

She opened her eyes. "Yes," she answered in a raspy whisper.

"Good."

Stiles was smiling when he reached to cup her cheek, but to Lydia, his anguish was apparent – broadcast to her, loud and clear, by way of his sharp inhale and the intensity of his eyes. He looked so happy and so distraught at the same time, which was exactly how she felt in that moment.

Lydia remembers wanting to be strong for him, but she had surpassed her limit of reserve. Her heart rate spiked again as emotion crumpled her face into rapidly blinking lids and trembling lips.

He didn't hesitate to respond, leaning down, until their foreheads were touching. "I know. I know... Don't cry," he advised, "you'll strain your throat even more."

She wondered if he was aware that she could feel his tears splashing against her eyelashes and skin. Her arms were like lead, but she willed them into action; first finding his shoulders, then taking two handfuls of his cotton tee into tightly clenched fists.

"Sc—cared," she choked out.

"Me too."

"Thought I—I wasn't...going...to...see...you."

"I'm here. I'm right here, Lyds," he soothed, tilting his head up to kiss her temple. "We're together now. Just focus on that."

She listened to him, thought about how fitting it was that _his_ was the first face she saw when she opened her eyes, how his proximity restored the natural cadence of her breaths and beats, and how his gentle touches were numbing her pain. Slowly but surely, she calmed; her hands loosening their vice grip on his shirt and sliding to either side of his face to keep him close.

"That's it, easy. You're gonna be okay."

Following a lengthy pause, he kissed her head once more before a noise in the hallway startled them both.

Stiles quickly glanced over his shoulder. "It's just one of the porters. He's headed down the hall. We're fine. Though, technically..." he added, nibbling on his lip, "I'm not supposed to be in here. Melissa snuck me in."

"Don't go," she fretted, hooking his pinky with hers.

He hovered closer. "Hey, there's no way I'm leaving you."

She let her eyes fall shut and breathed easier.

"You tired?"

Honestly, the emotional outburst had drained what was left of her energy, but she denied a yawn and shook her head. "Mason... The Beast..."

"Scott and I are working on that. You need to rest. You're in the ICU for a reason."

She was assembling a half-baked rebuttal, but Stiles was several steps ahead of her.

"Alright...how about _I_ need you to rest? Could you try? _For me?_ 'Cause, Lydia, I'm seriously worried about you. I need you to be okay."

She remembers thinking that he had chosen the only words that could have persuaded her to take heed. There was nothing she could deny him. Nothing. Especially not when he was looking at her like _that_ – like his peace of mind was dependent on her well-being, like he loved her.

"Please, Lyds," he coaxed, continually stroking her face with his fingertips.

She conceded with a nod.

"Thank you," he exhaled.

Stiles picked up her hand and kissed it, careful to avoid her IV line. Then he hooked the leg of the chair with his foot and brought it next to the bed. He sat down, maintaining as much contact with her as he could – one hand still locked with hers, the other clasped around her shoulder, where he attentively eased the last of her tension by massaging tiny circles with his thumb.

She watched him for as long as she could keep her eyes open.

"It's okay. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Prom—ise."

"I promise."

And with that, she drifted off...

Stiles still the first and last thought on her mind.

* * *

The next time she woke, she was in one of the private hospital rooms. The walls were shadowed in blue, stripes of moonlight peeking through Venetian blinds.

Stiles was there, fingers curled around her palm as he stood beside her bed.

"Hey, you alright?" he checked.

She remembers his expression – pensive and compassionate, and she instinctively knew he was trying to figure out how to tell her something.

"Did... Did you find something? A solution?" her hoarse voice inquired.

"Yeah. It was you…" Tilting his head and raising his eyebrows, he repeated. "It was _you,_ Lydia."

She gave him a questioning look, and he briefly averted his eyes before sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Remember what Melissa found out about Mason having a vanishing twin?"

Her throat was still irritated, so she simply nodded.

"Okay...so Scott, Liam, and I were talking it over with Deaton, and he thinks Mason is a genetic chimera because his sibling's DNA is still part of him."

She nodded again.

"So, the running theory is that even though Sebastien overtook him, Mason could still be in there – his life force at least, his—"

"Energy," she interjected.

"Right. Deaton thinks that somewhere inside Sebastien, Mason has to exist...maybe a spark of that energy...or even just a single memory. He said, if we could get Mason to remember one thing – like his name, that could save him because...if you call a werewolf by its given name..."

"It reverts...to human form."

"And that would separate Mason from the Beast, giving us the chance to put an end to this without hurting him."

It made sense, she supposed, in a bizarre supernatural kind of way. But there was something else...

Lydia waited for Stiles to say what she was already piecing together – the catch. There was always a catch because they lived in Beacon Hills...and in Beacon Hills, there was never an uncomplicated solution to anything.

"But it can't just be anyone. There's a specific kind of voice that could get through to Mason."

"Mine," she deduced.

"Yeah, and given what happened to you tonight..." he trailed off.

She closed her eyes in exasperation. She remembers thinking about the way Sebastien had stood over Noah, how he was ready to strike Stiles's father with a gleam of satisfaction in his callous eyes. She thought about all of the damage that _had_ been done and all that could _still_ be done if they couldn't separate Mason from the Beast. Unwilling to accept defeat, she started to get up from the bed.

Stiles stopped her, setting his hands firmly on her shoulders and hunching down to make eye contact. "Lydia, what are you doing?"

"Let's go," she wheezed.

 _"No,_ no, we're not going anywhere right now. Just slow down. Alright? It's barely three hours since my dad brought you here and...and you had lost so much blood that you had to have a transfusion...and..."

Lydia grasped his forearms, but she was too tired to put up any kind of a fight. When she hung her head in surrender, her gaze descended on his arms. _His arms_ that felt like the only thing keeping her upright.

That was when she noticed the bruise in the crook of his right elbow; a red-violet splotch centered by a tiny puncture mark – like from a hypodermic needle.

There was no reason for him to have a mark like that.

Unless... Stiles was her blood donor.

 _His blood_ was surging through _her veins._

Her head lifted. She stared at him; eyes transfixed on his beautiful careworn face. She stared at him while her nearly breathless lungs squeezed out a partial exhale. If she were still connected to a heart monitor, her pulse reading would have set off an alarm at the nurses' station.

"Lydia, what is it? Do you need me to get Melissa?"

"You."

"What?"

She bit her quivering lip and traced a circle around the mark with her index finger. He instantly understood what she was wordlessly communicating, but in typical unpretentious Stiles fashion, he tried to downplay the magnitude of what he had done for her.

"Oh, that..." he shrugged.

Like it was no big deal. No big deal when, ever since he was a child – a boy of only eight, who spent far too many days in this hospital, helplessly witnessing the decline of his mother's health, repeatedly seeing her poked and prodded with needles for blood samples and injections of experimental drugs, none of which helped her improve – ever since then, Stiles had developed a fear of needles and an intense aversion to the sight of blood.

Lydia released her lip and, without taking her eyes off him, continued to graze her thumb over the evidence of his selfless act. "Yes, that."

"That's just... I mean, the hospital's supply has been kind of depleted with all the killing and maiming that's been going on. With your blood type...the donor had to be—"

"O negative."

"Yeah."

"Looks like...you're making a habit of...saving my life," she smiled, ignoring the tightness in her sore throat.

He shook his head, cheeks tinging pink. "I should have been there."

"You're _here_ now," she pointed out, sliding her hands up to his shoulders, "and...you let someone...stick you with a needle... _for me."_

His shoulders lifted and lowered under her palms. "It was Melissa...and I passed out before she even got within two feet of me."

"Liar."

"Alright, I didn't pass out, but I was pretty close." He timidly smirked, but with a flutter of his lashes, his expression grew serious. "When I got here...and saw your blood all over my dad's uniform... I—there wasn't even a choice to make. Okay? I couldn't let you— because I have this stupid, irrational fear. I just couldn't."

"It doesn't make it any less..." she contended, tenderly brushing a few unruly strands away from his temple. "It only makes it _more_ heroic."

"Lydia—"

Refusing to let him minimize what he had done for her, she silenced him with a hug. She remembers wanting to hold him tighter, but her body didn't cooperate, only yielding a weary shudder. Stiles seemed to know the source of her frustration. He shifted closer and adjusted his grip on her, holding her tight enough for the both of them.

"Thank you," she whispered in his ear.

His chest swelled with an inhale. "Lyds, it's what we do for each other, and... I'd do anything... Anything."

She remembers thinking that two years earlier, a statement like that would have scared her; the weight of being _this person_ , one that he would do anything for, a burden – something she neither thought she could live up to or deserved. But things had changed. Somehow her mutual devotion to him created a balance, and Lydia wanted Stiles to know it.

She leaned back so she could look into his eyes, tiny droplets teetering off the ends of her lashes when she said, "So would I. You know that... Right?"

He solemnly nodded.

Lydia let the tugging that she always felt towards him guide her closer. She kissed his cheek, deliberately catching the corner of his mouth. Stiles pressed into her, turning inwards just a fraction of an inch. Just enough to let her know he understood it was intentional and he was okay with that.

When they unhurriedly parted, he was smiling, and so was she.

"Now will you lie down?"

"Stiles, I need...to do...something. We can't...let him win."

"We won't. We'll figure out a way. But first, you need to get your strength back. Come on..." he cajoled, flipping her pillow over and easing her towards it. "How's that?"

She scrunched up her face with disapproval.

The bed beneath her was nothing like either of theirs. It was thin and lumpy, and the sheets were stiff and pilly. It didn't have Lydia's plush pillows nor her cozy floral quilt. It didn't have Stiles's soft plaid sheets nor that perfect nook in the middle of his mattress – the one his body naturally impressed over time, the one they always sink into so effortlessly.

"Sorry, dumb question. These beds suck. I know they do. Also, it's freezing in here," he commented. "Why are hospitals always so ridiculously cold?"

It was cold. She remembers wishing she were curled up with Stiles in one of their beds – same as they had been doing, as often as they could, in recent weeks. There was always a reason. Sometimes, they fell asleep studying or watching a movie together. Other times, he was helping her cope with a headache or they had just gotten so comfortable they couldn't be bothered to move. Whatever the case, Lydia always felt warm and sheltered when Stiles was beside her...and she was pretty sure he felt the same.

Before she could ask him to lie down with her, he went on, "I'll get you some extra blankets."

Lydia tugged on his hand, directing her eyes to the empty space on her right side, so he would get the hint. She didn't need or want another blanket. She wanted him.

"Lyds, you know bed sharing is against hospital policy," he mock-scolded her.

She rolled her eyes.

"What about the fact that the bed's too small? I'll crowd you," he alleged feebly.

She knew he was teasing her, so she pouted dramatically. Stiles laughed – his beautiful, vibrant laugh that always made her soul feel considerably less bruised.

"You're right. We'll make it work," he conspired with a wink.

Then, he walked to the opposite side of the bed and squeezed in next to her. They melded together; Stiles putting his arm around her, and Lydia resting her cheek on his shoulder.

"Better?" he asked, left hand automatically coming up to the side of her head, protectively shielding the wound she sustained during the trepanation.

"Much," she answered, snuggling a little closer.

It was still dark outside, and the wall clock indicated that it was 1:22 a.m. In Beacon Hills, some nights seemed to go on forever, an endless deprivation of light, wickedly permitting more time for the supernatural realm to wreak havoc on their lives.

Lydia tried not to think about that, refocusing her attention on Stiles. His amber eyes, which she had ached to see a few hours prior, were looking back at her. She followed the pale bluish glow of moonlight that was kissing his skin and highlighting the branched pattern of veins in his arms. Veins that carried blood to his heart and, ever since that night, hers too. As she traced them with her finger, she remembers wishing for daylight, for the two of them to be tucked away, someplace safe and peaceful. Someplace warmed by the sun, where the only thing that went bump in the night was the harmonized pulsing of their two hearts. Her eyes began to sting with longing, but then she remembered that she didn't need to go somewhere else to experience that bliss. She was with Stiles – the boy with perpetual sun in his eyes. Wherever he was, there was light. Whenever they were together, she was safe...and happy...and hope could be more than just an abstract notion. It was something she could reach out and touch. She wanted to – so much.

So she did.

Lydia lifted her left hand from his arm so that her palm was facing him, fingers fanned out.

And Stiles understood. Of course he did.

His arm rose from where it was draped over her side. Then, his fingers slowly coasted over her palm and filled the spaces between hers before curling around the back of her hand.

She didn't have to wonder what he was thinking. She knew.

But it didn't hurt one bit when he said, "Keep doing things like this...and you're gonna be stuck with me."

"Good," she replied, and watched his grin flourish into a full smile.

For a while, they gazed into each other's eyes, holding on to each other in the calm between one of the many storms in their lives, their silent communication drowning out the low hum of activity in the adjoining corridor and of the world outside the window. Seconds passed...minutes...maybe hours. It didn't matter. It was only time going by, as it inevitably does; unaffected by need, want, or desire. And in the midst of it, there was something beautiful between them. Something that made the hardships easier to bear and the triumphs even sweeter. Something that made every raised brow, every blink, every smile, every touch, and every breath feel sacred, significant, and so very dear.

Something called Love.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia wakes, and Stiles is still with her. She is comfortably wrapped in his arms, a newly recovered memory enriching the present, her headache a thing of the past.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" he asks, giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze.

"Much better," she smiles.

"You were kind of restless for a while. Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And your headache?"

"It's gone."

"The tea worked then... Huh?"

"It wasn't the tea."

"No?"

"It was you..." she tells him, gingerly touching his face. "It was _you,_ Stiles."

"Lydia?"

"You remember that whole night..." she leads, pointing to the four, now feather-light, scars on the side of her neck.

His fingers follow hers over the surface of her skin. "Yeah, I do."

"Until today, I only remembered the worst parts of it, but now...I have the best parts too. And now, when I look back... _you'll_ be what I remember – more clearly than anything else." She brings his fingertips to her lips and kisses them. "I'll remember what you did for me."

"I'd do it again – in a heartbeat."

"I'll remember how you were there when I woke up, and how happy I was to see you...just like today."

The corners of his mouth steadily elevate as she speaks.

"I'll remember that you stayed with me and held me...just like today."

He hedges closer, kisses her once...twice...three times.

"You turned one of the worst nights of my life, into something...beautiful," she declares as she returns his kisses. "That's what you do, my love. It's what you've always done."

"It's what you do for me too. And the way we are now... This is how it's supposed to be. We've made it this far together, and that's how we're going to get through everything else. Right?"

"Yes."

"So...in the future...even though I hope you _never_ have another headache, promise you'll tell me, and no matter where I am, I'll come home to you."

Stiles lifts his hand, palm facing her, fingers fanned out – same as she had done on the night in her memory.

Lydia nods, her fingers slowly coasting over his palm, then filling the spaces between his before curling around the back of his hand.

"I wanna know everything that's going on with you, Lyds," he continues. "Everything. Every headache, every cough, every sneeze...every broken fingernail."

She giggles through the overwhelming emotion he stirs inside of her. "I promise. You too?"

"I promise."

She sits up to hug him, arms encircling him at full strength. He pulls her into his lap, ducking his head to tenderly kiss her neck and further diminishing her scars with the touch of his lips and the caress of his exhales.

They part a few minutes later, when Stiles's phone vibrates with a text message. He takes it off the nightstand, keeping his left arm anchored to Lydia.

"Is that your dad?"

"Yup, he wanted to check on you."

"Where is he?"

"Home. Says he's making my mom's Rosół for you."

She sucks in her top lip. Claudia's Polish chicken noodle soup is by far the best she's ever had...and Noah doesn't make it for just anyone.

"Really?" she beams.

"Yeah, and if you feel up to it, he'll bring it over for dinner tonight."

"I'd love that."

"Great. I'll let him know."

While he texts a response, Lydia thinks of how much she cherishes those moments – the three of them...plus Prada too, having dinner together. She loves watching Stiles interact with his dad, loves the way Noah dotes on them, loves how easy it is to see what all of that means: they are a family.

"It's all set. He'll be here around six," he confirms, returning his phone to the nightstand, "which gives you all afternoon to rest—"

She interrupts him with a kiss, and he melts under the contact.

"Mmm..." she purrs, "I don't need any more rest. I feel one hundred percent myself... And what was it you said before? Something about us...and all the kissing we have to make up for."

With raised eyebrows and a love-struck grin, he rolls back onto the mattress with her. "A whole day's worth...at least. Maybe more," he amends, then kisses her again...and again. "Definitely more."

The rest of the afternoon goes by at a relaxed pace. It is marked by a peaceful evolution of lazy kisses, warm hugs, and affectionately whispered words.

And that, Lydia thinks, is something beautiful too.


	25. The Sweeter the Dawn

The longer the night  
The sweeter the dawn  
\- The Sweeter the Dawn by Matthew Barber

* * *

On a sunny afternoon, Lydia and Stiles are relaxing at Lynbrook Park. Lydia is lying on her back with her knees bent and her bare feet pressed to the cool grass. Stiles is right next to her. He is stretched out on his side, propped on his elbow, his forearm cradling her head. Ahead of them, a field of fragrant wildflowers refracts every color of the rainbow, and to their left, calm lake waters quietly ripple against the rock-lined strand. They have spread a plaid blanket over the shaded field that rests between two crepe myrtle trees. Every time the breeze blows, clusters of dainty white blossoms disperse from their branches and scatter all around. It's like being inside of a snow globe, one that flurries with petals instead of snowflakes.

It's perfect. The whole day has been perfect. Lydia woke to Stiles's kisses, then slowly gained awareness of the way their bodies were positioned; patches of skin bonded in places pajamas didn't cover, limbs tangled as if they are striving to fuse together. They took their time getting out of bed and have spent every minute since _together_. Now they are in this idyllic setting, and he is outlining random patterns on her stomach with his index finger. She loves when he does that. There is beauty in the exquisite subtlety of his caresses, in the fact that he doesn't even seem to be fully conscious of what he is doing. She loves it because there is no ulterior motive; he just wants to touch her, to feel that she is there. Lydia wants the same, so she raises her arms above her head, loops them around his neck, then twirls the ends of his hair in her fingertips.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"How perfect this is... How glad I am that you're feeling better..." He leans down to gently kiss her temple, then pulls back to look at her. "Also...a tree," he adds wistfully, one corner of his mouth hitching towards the bright blue sky.

Lydia is immediately intrigued. "Like the one above our heads?" she wonders aloud, brushing away some fluffy blossoms that have landed on his crown.

"I'm not exactly sure. It's one that my dad told me about, years ago... My parents carved their initials in it...when they were dating."

She smiles. She loves hearing about Noah and Claudia. Whenever she gets another piece of their story, Lydia feels more a part of the family.

"Tell me more..."

"Well...it's somewhere in the middle of the grounds, and it's supposed to be the oldest tree in the park – the only one to have survived this wildfire in the late eighteen-hundreds."

"Must be a pretty special tree..."

"Yeah, it's called the True Love Tree...because according to the legend, only couples who are _truly_ in love can find it," he leads.

His eyebrows are arched, and he is poking at his bottom lip with his tongue. Lydia can already guess what he is getting at, but she wants to hear him say it anyway...because Stiles is just _so cute_ when he is being all timidly romantic.

So she encourages him, towing him closer. "Is that so?"

Sliding his hand out from under her floral top, Stiles begins to delicately trace her jaw with the side of his index. "Do you...maybe...wanna go look for it?"

"Uh-huh..." she agrees, kissing the pad of his thumb as it nears her lips, "and I bet we'll have no trouble finding it."

The joy and confidence she infuses into her words are mirrored in his gorgeous smile. He gets both arms around her and rolls her on top of him. Her hair is curtaining their faces, and she leans in to kiss him...again...and again...and again, each one consistent in pressure, but progressively longer. Then she tucks her hair behind her ears, lets daylight into their little cocoon, so she can watch Stiles glow.

And he does. He _really_ does. He is like the first glimpse of sunshine at dawn; slow to reveal itself, but impossible not to notice. The light he radiates is the kind that is multiplied every time it's communicated – every time he glances at her, or speaks to her, or touches her. It's the kind of light that sparks growth and which leaves an indelible impression, long after she closes her eyes.

His hands are low on her hips, keeping her close, and his heart is tapping out _I love yous,_ like Morse code, where their sternums are connected. Within the breadth of an admiring gaze, Lydia kisses his forehead, and his cheeks, and once more, his sweet mouth. She is so happy that Stiles wants to share something _this_ special with her, and she adores him so much – she thinks she might spontaneously combust from the thrill of it all.

"Let's go right now..." she implores. "I can't wait to see it."

"Okay, just one more thing first..."

Before she can ask what that is, her perspective somersaults and Stiles is on top of her. His hands are attentively supporting the back of her head, and his eyes are set on hers; honeyed flecks, dripping with love. The pleasant weight of his body melts into hers as he purposefully kisses every inch of her face and neck, then playfully ducks further down to tickle her belly with sighs and feather-light kisses...over and over, until she erupts into a fit of giggles.

Lydia laughs unreservedly, gripping his shaking shoulders while looking up at the sky and its cotton candy clouds through a fringe of billowing leaves and whirling branches. As her eyes mist with elation, she wonders how anything could make this moment better. But then Stiles moves above her, smile soft and easy. He is stroking her hair and skin, confectioning dulcet verses into her ear, and following the tracks of her happiness with his lips as the wind carries echoes of their laughter across the wide-open space.

It takes a few more minutes and several lazily paced kisses to return their heartbeats and breaths to a normal rate, but they get there and eventually sit up. Lydia puts on her sandals. Stiles stands and dusts himself off, then holds out his hands for her. She accepts them, and when he pulls her up from the ground and right back into his arms, she willingly disappears into another embrace.

They hug each other, riding out another intense surge of affection before gathering their belongings; Lydia collects their travel mugs and copy of _The Hobbit_ , Stiles folds up the blanket. They place everything in his backpack, clasp hands, and set off down the main trail.

Together, they follow their hearts into the ambling hills of the park. Without a single word exchanged, Stiles and Lydia veer from the path. They enter the east garden, which is in full bloom with blue irises, larkspur, and delphinium and animated by the activity of tiny sparrows, bumblebees, and the occasional butterfly.

At the other end of the garden resides a forest, consisting mainly of cottonwood, maple, and evergreen trees. Lydia and Stiles continue to where the gravel gradually reduces to soil. They take turns shaping their own path through the woods. She doesn't question how they both seem to know where they are going, she just lets the tugging in her chest guide her, delighted that he is naturally gravitating in the same direction.

The farther they go, the larger the trees become. It's damp and cool beneath the shelter of their expansive boughs and dense summer foliage. There is a surreal kind of energy in the forest, one that enunciates its presence in the whimsical tune of chirping birds and the intermittent hum of tree frogs. The air is shimmering with an ethereal mist. Even the shadows don't seem as bleak as they normally could.

Beyond a gathering of tall pines, they come to a clearing. Lydia knows they are in the right place. She can feel it, and...by the way Stiles is squeezing her hand, she knows he does too.

He articulates her name with a smile, and her body rushes with excitement.

At the same time, a cloud that was concealing the sun gives way, and brilliant golden sunbeams cast a spotlight on a giant sycamore tree. It's a few yards ahead, stately structure and graceful arched branches sprawling far and wide.

"Stiles..." she says breathlessly. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah, it is," he whispers, tenderly touching her cheek.

They stand there for a moment, gazing at each other with eyes and hearts full of love.

Then, Stiles puts his backpack down and urges her forward. "Come on... Let's get closer."

With hands still linked, they reverently approach the tree. Its trunk is marked with an array of neatly carved initials, each of them etched deeply, though not as many as one might hope to find on a tree that is probably two hundred years old or more. Lydia wonders if she should be sad about that, but she finds that she isn't. It feels more like tangible proof of what she already knows to be true – that what she and Stiles have is precious and rare.

"I've never seen anything like this," she remarks, as she observes something else.

Miraculously, each of the engravings have withstood the influence of the elements, evidently untouched by the passage of time.

"Me neither. It's like they were all done yesterday," he comments. "It makes sense though... Doesn't it?"

She knows what Stiles means because she has been thinking it too. True love doesn't fade. Not at all. True love – the kind they have for each other – it supersedes time, it only expands, roots deeper with each layer of evolution...deep enough to reach the soul and sure enough to call it _home._

"Yeah, it does," she agrees.

Fastening her free hand to his upper arm, she follows his instinctive steps around the tree, enchanted by his every move. His eagerness is apparent, but he is careful not to touch any of the carvings...like he doesn't want to disturb them. He seems magnetically pulled towards one in particular – a heart, imprinted about chest-high, that houses the initials _CG + NS._

"This is it... Look, babe..." he beckons her nearer, bringing her in between himself and the tree. "There's even a number eight here at the bottom. That had to be my mom's idea."

"Her lucky number."

"Uh-huh," he exhales, a little unsteady.

Lydia sees his beautiful hand, still floating above the inscription, trembling ever so slightly. She is about to ask if he is alright when he responds to her unspoken question.

"This is kind of amazing," he smiles as he winds his other arm around her waist.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is, love."

He bows his head to kiss the top of her shoulder and finally presses his palm to the tree in the most loving manner.

Lydia gives him a moment, then gently covers his hand with hers. She lets her fingers slip between his, and she remembers.

 _She remembers the night of Senior Scribe..._

* * *

Lydia remembers that she was headed for the west exit of the high school, rows of lockers and empty classrooms on either side of her.

She had just been in the library with her friends, and they had just written their initials in permanent marker on one of the balcony level bookshelves. It was tradition, a night for students to commemorate the beginning of their senior year – all of them together.

Except they weren't. Someone was missing.

Five months earlier, they had lost the person who brought them together. _Allison._

And without her, they were incomplete.

Lydia knew that Stiles and Scott felt Allison's absence as profoundly as she did; the three of them missed what they had with her. Then there was Kira, who felt Allison's loss in a different way. She had told Lydia more than once how much she wished she had known Allison better; she missed what they could have been.

While Lydia was immersed in thought, Scott had been the one to write Allison's initials on the bookshelf. It was a beautiful gesture; one which Lydia herself had considered as she penned her own initials. She considered it, but she didn't do it. Instead, she let the inclination pass, handed the marker off to Kira, and went to stand with Stiles before she broke down in front of everyone. Then she took controlled breaths as she leaned on him, tried to draw strength from the contact between his hand and the small of her back, and watched as Scott did what she couldn't.

And when Stiles said: _She would have been with us,_ Lydia remembered Allison telling her to smile...and it gave her the courage to reply: _She still is._

But afterwards, in the hallway, without Stiles beside her, each of Lydia's steps were a challenge. She was dreading going home; the odds of having to battle yet another night of disturbing dreams and sleeplessness were not in her favor. The weight on her shoulders was unrelenting but she pressed on, heels of her knee-high boots clicking against the vinyl tiles as she rounded the last corner. She walked less than ten paces more...

Then, Lydia remembers, she couldn't go any further; steely blue metal and sharp silver tag with a three-digit number catching the corner of her eye and paralyzing her, mid-stride.

Locker 635.

 _That locker_ would remain empty for the entire school year. _That locker_ was Allison's.

Lydia stood in front of it, moonlight sieving through the window behind her, exit to the parking lot several meters ahead. Fellow classmates passed by; some of them bidding her good night, others sweeping past as if she were invisible. All the while, Lydia stood there, unable to move. Her heart was doing something strange – beating rapidly, then slowing, then speeding up again.

She couldn't understand what was happening. She had passed Allison's locker numerous times before. At least twice per day...five days a week...for two whole months at the end of junior year. All those times...knowing the locker was empty. All those times...feeling the same painful jab in her stomach.

What choice did Lydia have but to endure it? Her own was only two doors to the left of Allison's.

 _It's just a locker,_ she reminded herself.

It had been used by countless people before Allison, and after this year, it would be used by countless more.

 _It was just a locker_ , except it felt like her heart – empty and dented from being opened and slammed shut a few too many times.

Lydia remembers that she hadn't been struck with such grief at the sight of that locker since the first day back to school after...after Allison died.

Stiles was with her that day. He walked with her, held her hand every single time she had to approach it. After their last class, when Lydia loitered there, feet rooted to the floor...like she was expecting Allison to miraculously appear and assure her that the previous week had just been a horrible nightmare, Stiles stayed by her side. He patiently waited as Lydia reluctantly confronted the awful truth: her best friend would never stand there...or anywhere else ever again. Then he walked her to the parking lot, climbed into the backseat of the Jeep with her, and stroked her hair while she cried in the safety of his arms.

Lydia remembers that when she finally snapped back to her surroundings, the corridor had cleared. Cautiously turning to face the locker, she put her trembling left hand to its cold metal exterior. She thought she heard something, so she closed her eyes and leaned nearer, hoping against hope that her friend was trying to send her a message.

There was a whisper, a ghost of a sound, and Lydia could have sworn she heard Allison's voice say: _Remember what it feels like..._

Barely a breath later, she felt a hand gently covering hers, its fingers slipping between hers to press against the locker. Lydia didn't have to look to see who it was. She knew it was Stiles. His hand fit with hers, in a way that no one else's ever could. She didn't have to look, but she wanted to.

Her eyes fluttered opened. She remembers the beautiful sight of their woven digits, and how her lugs swelled with a complete inhale for the first time since she had left the library. She remembers the way her irregular heartbeats found equilibrium when his fingers curled around her palm, how the firmness of his grip conveyed a message of its own.

Stiles kept his hand in place; energy between his and hers, longed for, comforting, and grounding.

"I thought you might be here," he eventually said in a hushed tone.

"I thought you left."

"No, I didn't leave. I was just waiting..."

He trailed off as he set his other hand on her right shoulder, and Lydia understood the words he didn't say. He was waiting _for her_...because he knew she needed him, and maybe because...he needed her too.

Hands falling slowly from the locker, she turned towards Stiles. When their eyes met, she pursed her lips and nodded.

Before she could blink, she was in his arms. She doesn't remember which of them moved first, or if they lunged forward simultaneously. All she remembers is that her cheek landed on soft orange plaid and that the tears that were threatening to spill over her lashes seemed to evaporate into thin air.

Stiles was holding her _so close._ His embrace was solid, warm, and uninhibited. It was as though every unnecessary boundary that had distanced them in the past months suddenly crumbled into dust; their influence merely a façade, as false and flimsy as the interloper that contrived them. Lydia remembers darkness; her eyes tightly shut. She remembers silence; not a soul besides theirs occupying the abandoned hallway. She remembers that her left arm was around his torso while her right was nestled between their chests, fingers clutching the placket of his flannel shirt, knuckles receptive to the cherished beats beneath them. She remembers the sensation of Stiles's palms coasting over the waves of her hair as he rubbed her back. The solace his familiar hands provided was penetrating deeper with every pass, gingerly buffing away the bruises on the surface of her heart with the kind of tenderness only he could bestow.

After a while, he cupped the back of her head, hunching down to catch her gaze. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," she exhaled. "You?"

"Yeah... Tonight's been even harder than I thought it would be though."

Her eyes misted when she replied, "Yeah, it has."

He gave her an upside-down smile. "Do you wanna go for a walk with me?"

"Yes," she instantly nodded...because there was nothing she wanted more than to spend time with Stiles, and she was _so tired_ of having to pretend otherwise.

"Good."

Keeping one arm around her, he turned them towards the exit. Then, they both gave Allison's locker one last look before heading for the door.

She remembers how effortlessly they walked in step – Stiles abbreviating his stride to match hers, and Lydia still grasping the back of his shirt. Together they pushed through the double doors, gust of humid air rushing by as they crossed the terrace. Once they neared the stairs, his hand slipped away from her shoulder. She remembers the disappointment that came from the loss of contact. It promptly dissipated though – when he took her hand with an easy smile and led her into the parking lot.

It was there, that she was sideswiped by the Jeep; memory of an evening ride in the passenger's seat waltzing across her mind. A bitter twinge of regret sought to remind her of how she fussed with her stupid dress and grumbled about the seat belt buckle that stuck, but she chose to focus on the image of Stiles. _Stiles_ adjusting the heat, so she was comfortable. _Stiles_ driving with a meticulous level of caution...as though he had precious cargo on board. _Stiles_ opening the door for her – not just outside her house, when her mother was watching, but also when they arrived at the school. _Stiles_ with his compassionate eyes and kind words which thawed the icy sting of indifference that Jackson had inflicted. _Stiles_ holding his arm out for her and escorting her into the dance...

Lydia didn't even realize she had halted in her tracks, that she was standing in front of the Jeep, staring at it...like she was just coming to appreciate another layer of its irrefutable charm.

"Lyds, what is it?" she heard Stiles ask.

"I was...remembering something."

"Tell me," he coaxed, tugging on her hand and her heartstrings.

"Umm..." she swallowed thickly, "the night of the Winter Formal...when you picked me up."

"Oh..." he grinned, bashfully scratching the nape of his neck. "I was so nervous...I could barely function."

"It didn't show."

"Pfft..." he scoffed. "You mean like how I drove at _ten_ miles an hour for most of the way...how I came to a full stop at not one, but _two_ green lights...or how I nearly stalled the Jeep on Poplar Avenue? It was like I forgot how to drive."

Smiling fondly at him, she contended, "But once we got here...you were much calmer, and the whole night..."

Overwhelming emotion momentarily silenced her. She inhaled slowly and resumed, "The whole night, you were nothing but good to me. You were perfect, actually. That's how I remember it."

Stiles turned to look at her. "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"We've come a long way since then," he remarked with a nostalgic twinkle in his eyes.

"We sure have."

Stiles chuckled softly and reached out to touch her chin. "And you even learned to love my Jeep."

"Yeah, I did," she admitted...even though what she really wanted to say was, _But I love you most of all._ She pressed her empty palm to the base of her ribs, shuddering with the effort it took to keep her feelings to herself.

"The rain really cooled things off out here. Huh?" he misread.

"Mmm..."

"I have that extra hoodie in the trunk if you want it..."

She knew exactly which hoodie he meant. It was the light grey one that he lent her, on a spring evening, when they were at the movies with Scott and Allison. One that he draped over her shoulders on many occasions afterwards too. One that, no matter how often she has worn it, _still_ always smells like laundry detergent and Stiles. One that has remained in the Jeep ever since that first time in sophomore year, just in case she ever needed it.

 _He still has it,_ Lydia thought.

And she remembers how much it mattered to her that he did.

"Yeah, thanks," she answered.

Then she waited as Stiles dug his keys out of his pocket and opened the trunk, fought tears when he took her bag from her shoulder and helped her into the hoodie, smiled as he untucked her hair from the collar while she rolled up the sleeves.

"You can leave that here," he offered, motioning towards her bag.

"Okay," she agreed, transferring her phone and wallet to the pocket of his hoodie.

He locked up the Jeep and reclaimed her hand. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

Lydia remembers how he ticked his head to the left, leading them on their way. She remembers that she followed him without even wondering where they were going.

And when they passed the spot where Allison used to park her car, Lydia silently thanked her first true friend, for ensuring that she went to the formal _with Stiles._

As they strolled down the block, he never loosened his grip on her hand. Lydia remembers the murkiness of the sky that night; moon and stars left unseen, shrouded by the thick cover of clouds that loitered for almost an hour after the preceding downpour. Rainwater saturated the pavement. Its droplets were still clinging to leaves – both those in the trees as well as those that had been haphazardly displaced by the storm. She remembers how beads of moisture adhered to every house and fence, every flowering shrub and blade of grass, all of them glistening like fallen stars in the tawny light of streetlamps that lined their path.

She remembers walking with Stiles in the same way they always did – wandering through comfortable stretches of quiet and conversation, no destination in mind, each of them taking turns deciding which direction to go whenever they reached an intersection.

They were descending a sloping road, near Andrews Square, when Lydia slid on a patch of sodden leaves. She remembers teetering and tensing with sudden fear...then relaxing when she didn't hit the ground. Stiles had caught her, his body thoroughly bracing her; his left hand still linked with hers, his right arm circling her waist, inside the hoodie he gave her.

She remembers the way their eyes met; hers wide, his alert yet soft. She couldn't think of anything except for the fact that their faces were mere inches apart.

"Alright?" he asked, chest swelling against hers, reminding her to breathe.

"Yeah, thanks," she sighed with relief.

Looking down at the leg that had buckled beneath her, he checked, "Is your ankle okay?"

She straightened up, carefully testing it. It was a little tight, but nothing to fuss over, so she said, "It's okay. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Maybe we should—"

"Stiles, I'm fine," she stubbornly maintained.

He nodded and hesitantly let go, but Lydia had a suspicion he was already formulating a strategy to get her to rest. Before she could speak to dissuade him, Stiles had aimed his gaze at something behind her, so she turned to see what it was.

Across the street from where they were standing was Ned's Diner.

"Well, I dunno about you, but I'm starving," he asserted. "You wanna get something to eat?"

In truth, Lydia was hungry...very hungry. It was well after midnight, and she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. For most of the day, a jagged pit of grief had been lodged in her stomach, making her uneasy and diminishing her appetite. But being with Stiles made her feel better. His presence and concern had a way of smoothing the coarse edges that were digging at her from the inside and lightening the darkness that was looming overhead.

"Yeah, let's," she concurred.

Together, they crossed the street; Lydia ignoring the slight stiffness in her ankle, and Stiles with one hand hovering behind her shoulder in that unassuming way that he did.

* * *

The diner was amply lit and sparsely occupied. They chose their usual booth in the corner by the jukebox. Lydia wasn't surprised when Stiles sat across from her, but the two-foot gap between them felt like miles. She couldn't help but think of all those times he had squeezed in right beside her. Often, when Allison and Scott were with them. More frequently, when she and Stiles met there – just the two of them – so they could huddle up together to study or seize a fleeting moment of escape.

She missed those days. The unhappy contrast made her heart ache...until she felt his knee leaning against hers underneath the table. Lydia presumed it was accidental and prepared herself for the impending separation when Stiles would inevitably shift away. But he handed her a menu, and his leg didn't budge, and she had no intention of doing so either.

Shortly after, one of the servers came to their table. A tiny, middle-aged woman named Daisy, with a kind face, blonde ringlets, and bell-like voice.

"Nice to see you two," she smiled. "What can I get you, dears?"

While Stiles ordered chicken fingers, a cherry Coke, and enough fries for them both, Lydia stared at the menu. She could hear her mother advising her to order a salad... _without_ any dressing, reminding her that if she wanted to continue to fit in the high-waisted, periwinkle blue shorts she was wearing, then she had better watch what she eats. But Lydia already knew what she wanted. She ignored the nagging tone, then asked for a turkey club and a sweet iced tea with lemon for herself _and_ one of the diner's famous giant chocolate chip cookies...so she could share it with Stiles.

"Comin' right up..." Daisy winked, before gathering their menus and heading for the kitchen.

* * *

Later on, Lydia and Stiles were sharing their meal and chatting about their new schedule for the semester. She was pleased to learn that they would have two classes together as well as a free period, even more pleased when he proposed that they use them to meet in the library or take long lunches together since seniors had off-campus privileges during the school day.

She tried not to fixate on his left forearm – which was extended more than halfway across the table, fingers pointed towards her, their movements commanding her attention whenever he gestured to punctuate his statements. It felt like Stiles was reaching for her, and Lydia remembers wanting to reach back – _so badly,_ to hold his hand and never let go, but she didn't. Instead, she kept her right hand buried in the pocket of the hoodie he gave her and snatched the slice of lemon from the rim of her glass with the other. She nibbled on the rind, let its sour tang sober her up for a minute...then went right back to daydreaming about holding hands with Stiles.

They were nearly done with their fries when the ketchup ran out. He picked up the bottle, pounding out the last few drops before sliding out of the booth.

"I'll go get some more. Be right back."

He was hardly gone for ten seconds when a boy approached the table, stopping directly in front of her and blocking Stiles from view. He looked to be around her age, had blue eyes, sandy-colored hair, and chiseled features. He was the type of boy that might have seemed worthy of another glance, a year or so before. But things had changed since then, and all she observed was what he was lacking – no warmth in his eyes, no beautifully messy hair, no cute upturned nose or endearing lopsided smile. It all summed up to the fact that he wasn't Stiles.

"This is going to sound strange but...I think we've met before," the boy said.

Lydia silently scoffed. If she had a dollar for every time she heard that line...

She was about to spare him further humiliation by brushing him off with a sarcastic quip that would send him on his way, but he went on...

"You're Lydia Martin. Aren't you?"

Immediately on her guard, she narrowed her eyes. She hadn't expected this stranger to know her name, and she didn't enjoy feeling as though he had an advantage over her.

"You probably don't remember me..."

"Should I?" she shrugged, intending to appear unaffected.

"Well, it's been a long time. See, we were in elementary school together...'til fourth grade. I'm Theo... Theo Raeken. I just moved back to Beacon Hills," he explained with a smile that was most likely meant to seem humble and friendly, but which only registered as overly confident and duplicitous.

He extended his hand, but Lydia kept hers below the table. She didn't like how this _Theo_ was looking at her. On top of that, he stood too close, slightly hunched stance resembling a predator stalking its prey. A cold tingle zipped up her spine, so she pulled Stiles's hoodie tighter around her.

"I don't blame you for being cautious. I—"

The next thing Lydia remembers is the sight of Stiles's arm coming between Theo and herself, followed by the clank of a ketchup bottle being set firmly on the table.

"Hey... Stiles, twice in one night," Theo commented. "What are the chances?"

"I'd say slim to none," Stiles retorted. "What are you doing here?"

"Just picking up some food."

"Uh-huh."

Lydia remembers the acute skepticism in Stiles's pitch. She also remembers Theo's vacant stare – so impassive that it was almost antagonistic.

"Yup, and then I saw Lydia over here, so I thought I'd re-introduce myself...since we're probably going to be seeing each other at school." He looked down at her. "I remembered you because of your red hair—"

"Actually, it's strawberry blonde," Stiles quietly muttered, and Lydia had to bite her tongue not to laugh.

"Huh?" Theo inquired.

"Never mind. You were saying..."

"Oh yeah... See, the truth is, it wasn't just your hair. I remembered you right away because...I had this little crush on you...and I was kinda hoping you remembered me too."

"Sorry to disappoint," she unceremoniously lied.

"It's okay. I wasn't the only one. All the boys had a crush on you – Stiles worst of all," he sniggered, nudging Stiles with his elbow.

Lydia remembers the intricacies of Stiles's reaction – brows pinched, jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his side. She remembers how he shifted on his feet, standing even closer to where she was seated while Theo paused to manufacture an apologetic expression...one too dramatic to be anything other than phony.

"Oh, sorry... I probably shouldn't have said that. Now you're gonna think—"

"I think..." Lydia interrupted as she reflexively reached for Stiles, wrapping her fingers around his palm in an attempt to calm him, "there isn't anything _you_ could tell me about Stiles that I don't already know."

Stiles instantly relaxed, corner of his mouth uplifting has he squeezed her hand.

"I'm sure that's true," Theo replied, blatantly eyeing their joined hands, still smiling in a way that could only be described as smug. "You guys are probably very close after all these years."

Lydia remembers being worried that his arrogance would further provoke Stiles, but a holler from behind the front counter granted a reprieve from the building tension.

"Pick up for Raeken!"

"Coming..." he called. "I'd better get going. It was good to meet you _again,_ Lydia... Stiles." His pretentious smirk broadened as he nodded at each of them. Then, he started to leave and turned back. "Hey, maybe the three of us will have a class together...just like old times."

Lydia remembers thinking that it sounded like a threat. She plastered on the artificial smile she had mastered years earlier, but it felt more unnatural than ever. Stiles just scrunched up his mouth and tilted his chin up in that way that he does when he is trying to control his temper. He kept his eyes on Theo while he retrieved his order from the counter, waved from the door, and finally left. Then, Stiles slowly released Lydia's hand and dropped back into the booth.

"What the _hell_ was that?" she questioned.

"I dunno. Something..." He continued to glare at Theo through the windows.

"Stiles?"

She tugged on his sleeve, and he made eye contact.

"Sorry, Lyds. I'm just... How much do you remember him?"

"The name is familiar. I suppose his face is too...but that's about it."

"That makes sense. He was absent a lot, had pretty bad asthma."

"Had?"

"Apparently, he's a..." Stiles leaned over the table, lowering his voice when he said, "werewolf."

Lydia remembers the way her face reshaped with disillusionment.

"Scott and I ran into him tonight...before Scribe. He sorta helped Scott out of that trouble he was in. The thing is, I remember Theo, but..."

"But?"

"I dunno. Something isn't right. I mean he shows up, out of nowhere, at the _exact_ moment Scott is being attacked by...some kind of supernatural creature with these strange claws... A creature that was trying to siphon Scott's powers, by the way. And then he claims to have heard about Scott being a True Alpha, says that he moved back here with his family...and wants to be part of the pack."

"But you don't think that's the whole story."

"No. I was already suspicious, but now _this_ – the way he just happened to run into us here... It's all too convenient." He shook his head.

"What does Scott think?"

She could hear his rising agitation when he confided, "That I'm making too much out of it."

"Well, maybe for argument's sake, we should consider Theo's side for a minute," she pragmatically suggested.

"Fine," he huffed. "You first..."

"Maybe he came here tonight because this is the only decent diner, within a ten-mile radius, that's open twenty-four hours a day."

Stiles didn't say anything, just clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"Your turn," she prompted.

"I...suppose he could be trying so hard because his chances of surviving as a lone wolf are kinda low."

"Valid point."

"Also, I have a tendency to be...hyper-vigilant," he grimaced.

"True," she conceded, then briefly pursed her lips. "And, I'm sure...to most people, Theo seems harmless."

"Yup, I bet he does."

He ran a hand through his hair and ducked his head, but Lydia hooked her finger under his chin. She hated to see Stiles doubting himself...especially when he had plenty of good reasons to be distrustful.

"But this _is_ Beacon Hills," she added, "and things aren't always what they seem to be... Are they?"

"No, they aren't," he replied softly, lifting his head to gaze at her like she just restored his faith in himself.

"Stiles, you have the best instincts of anyone I've ever known. If you think Theo is up to something, then I believe you."

When she took his hand from across the table, she remembered what it felt like the first time – at the Formal, when he told her she was smart. She remembered how she had never gotten butterflies from a touch before...and she still never has with anyone but Stiles.

He latched onto her like a lifeline and looked into her eyes. "Thank you."

Lydia smiled, marveling at how the golden glimmer of hope was rising in his irises.

"So, what do we do now?" he asked.

He was still so solemn, and she wanted him to smile, so she teased, "Um...finish our fries?"

It worked. His beautiful crooked grin reappeared as he nudged her knee under the table. After twisting the cap off their new bottle of ketchup, he poured some onto the plate they were sharing, dunked one of the remaining French fries, and popped it into his mouth.

Lydia had one as well, then answered his question. "Seriously though, Stiles... You already know what to do – the same thing we always do when we investigate someone."

"We get their version of the story."

"Then..."

"We verify the facts...find the piece that doesn't fit and—"

"Catch him in the act," she concluded.

He nodded. "I guess next time I see Theo, I'm gonna have to get him to talk. Shouldn't be too hard... He loves the sound of his own voice."

She remembers the upshot of worry that made her heart falter.

"Stiles, you'll be extra careful though... Won't you?"

"Yeah, sure."

She pulled his hand closer. "I mean it. _Please,_ don't take any unnecessary risks with this guy."

His eyes flickered with understanding, like he knew how much the notion of him being hurt tormented her. "I won't... I'll even make sure Scott is with me. I promise." He tapped her wrist and wet his lips. "I um... I don't like the way he was looking at you."

"That makes two of us."

"So, you'll be careful then, too. Better yet, you could like avoid him at all costs."

"That's going to be difficult if we're going to school together."

"But you'll try..." he insisted, taking the last French fry, breaking it in half, and offering one portion to her. "Promise?"

Lydia accepted it. "I promise."

Outside their window, the sky was gradually changing. The clouds had passed, and the darkness was beginning to recede as the early morning hours rolled on. They talked for a while longer. Lydia hardly noticed the other people in the diner, coming and going as they had their meals and left. She was too busy looking at Stiles, and he was looking back at her in a way she never tired of witnessing.

They shared her cookie, piece by piece, chunks of chocolate melting on her tongue...along with some of the things she wanted to, but couldn't, say to him. Every time she swallowed, it became more difficult; the lump in her throat swelling as her thoughts paddled between Stiles and Allison...until it felt like the undissolved sugar was abrading the back of her throat. Despite her best efforts to control her emotions, her eyes began to mist.

"Lydia, what's wrong?"

"Allison loved these," she said, almost choking on the hollow vibrations in her larynx.

"I know," Stiles replied in his most sensitive timbre.

"Did you also know that Chris never had her mobile number disconnected? It still goes to her voicemail."

"No, I didn't."

"Sometimes I call it, just to hear her voice... I called three times yesterday," she confessed through an irrepressible sob.

"Aww...Lydia..."

Stiles swiftly got up and moved to sit next to her. Lydia remembers staring at the droplets her eyes had shed on the table until he enveloped her with both arms. That was when she caved, turned into him and cried into his shoulder. She hated crying in public, but that night, she didn't care. Stiles was with her, his body shielding her from view, gentle hands supporting her back.

"It's okay. Let it out," he soothed. "I've got you."

He held her _so tightly_ , and she could feel his lips pressed to her cheek. Not a kiss...something different, perhaps even more intimate. Something which reminded her that what they had would always be _more._ She remembers his heartbeat...and hers – thumping so fast in response that it was massaging away the dents in her bruised heart.

Stiles held her and didn't let go until the shaking stopped. "I know you miss Allison...but is there something else?" he asked while pushing her hair behind her shoulders.

Lydia nodded, then blotted her eyes on the cuffs of the hoodie he gave her. "I've been having these nightmares..."

"What kind?"

"I don't...get a lot of detail, but I can't move or see anything...and it's always _so cold_ that I wake up shivering. It feels like more than a bad dream though... It feels like something is starting. I don't know what...but something awful."

She remembers looking into his eyes and recognizing that he shared her pain and apprehension.

"You feel it too. Don't you? That's why you're so worried about Theo and...everything."

"I hate to say it but...yeah."

"I can't do this again," she gasped. "Not without her."

"I know... I know it's not fair. Allison should be here, and you shouldn't have to deal with any of these things."

"You shouldn't either. I don't want this for us..." She caught herself speaking as if they were a couple and amended, "For any of us."

"I wish I could fix it for you, Lydia. All I can tell you is...you're not alone. Okay? You have Scott, and Kira, and you still have me...for whatever that's worth..."

Clutching his elbow, she affirmed, "Stiles, that's worth a lot. More than you know... I just miss her so much, and I keep wondering how things might be...if she were alive."

"Shh... You don't have to explain. I get it." He wiped her stray tears away with his thumb. "But you know...you can call me...if you're upset, or scared, or if you just want to talk – about anything. It doesn't matter how late it is."

"I don't want to bother you."

"Hey, you could never...and I'll probably be awake anyway...staring at the ceiling, worrying about you...and...everyone. You can call me – anytime, and we can talk for however long you want. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Come here..." He brought her back into his arms. "I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but it's gonna be alright. It has to be. We just have to keep sticking together."

Just as she had done in the library, Lydia took in slow, deliberate breaths. Stiles's scent pervaded her senses as well as her thoughts. It conjured up memories of the two of them, finding all the solace they needed in each other.

She was still tucked into the crook of his neck, when Daisy returned.

"Can I get you or your girlfriend anything else?" she offered in a distinctly empathetic tone.

Lydia remembers the swirl in her stomach when she heard the word _girlfriend_.

It intensified when Stiles didn't correct Daisy, simply answered, "Nothing for me. What about you, Lyds?"

She picked up her head and blinked into the bright lights. "No, thank you."

"Just the check then, thanks," Stiles confirmed.

They both reached for their wallets, but he stopped her.

"I've got it." He kept one arm around Lydia, handed Daisy some cash, and told her to keep the change.

"Thanks, honey," she smiled. "You two take care now. Stay as long as you like."

When she stepped away, Stiles shifted to shove his wallet into his pocket, then resettled a bit closer to Lydia with a sigh.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm..."

"Do you ever feel like our entire high school experience has just been...one _incredibly_ long night."

"Yeah...I do." After a few seconds of silence, he hummed under his breath. "Hmf..."

"What?"

"Just...what you said... It reminded me of something my mom used to say whenever my dad or I were going through a rough time."

"What was it?"

"She'd say... _The longer the night, the sweeter the dawn_. They're actually lyrics to a song she loved."

Lydia remembers the cadence of his voice; mellow and unbroken. She turned to face him, anxious to absorb the serenity that arose whenever Stiles spoke of Claudia.

"What?" he asked.

She bit her lip, dismissing an upsurge of shyness. "I... I like when you tell me about your mom. You get this expression I can't quite describe... I can see how much you miss her, even feel your sadness, but...there's also a peace to it. I don't have that. When I talk about Allison...I end up crying."

"Yeah, well... I've had years to try to cope. It's only been five months since Allison..." He grazed her cheek with his fingertips. "You had that peace in the library – when you said that she's still with us. I saw it...felt it too. You'll have it again...maybe when you least expect it."

"You think so?"

"I know it." Stiles gave Lydia a squeeze and got up from their booth. "Come with me... I have an idea." He led her to the jukebox where he dropped two coins in the slot and punched in his selection. "This is the one," he told her, draping his arm around her as the song began to play.

She listened to the lyrics of the harmonious duet, reveling in the melody of the acoustic guitar and the weight of his arm on her shoulders.

 _Breezes blow, branches bend  
Leaves let go and descend  
The sun hangs low, setting soon  
A hand off to the moon  
They never miss their que  
Is anything wrong? Is anything right?  
Whenever it's dark, well somewhere it's light_

* _  
There's a road with something bright  
A life I chose, some inherit  
Took me out to the colds  
With the one I love the most  
Chasing after ghosts  
Is anything right? Is anything wrong?_

 _*  
The longer the night  
The sweeter the dawn_

 _*  
Is anything wrong? Is anything right?  
Whenever it's dark, well somewhere it's light  
Is anything right? Is anything wrong?  
The longer the night  
The sweeter the dawn_

All the while, she remembers being profoundly aware of how significant the moment was. Stiles was sharing a piece of Claudia, of his family, with her.

"It's a really beautiful song," she complimented when the last note sounded. "Thank you for this... I know it's not easy."

"It is though... At least it is with you. I never thought I'd be able to do something like this. After she died, I kept so much in... I thought I would lose her if I shared what I had left with anyone but my dad or Scott. But I've never felt that way with you." He paused for a breath. "Everything is different with you...and when I tell you about her, it's like what I have...becomes...more. I dunno... Am I making any sense?" he questioned, rubbing his eyes.

"Yeah, you make a lot of sense."

And he did. Stiles made sense out of everything in her life.

"You wanna hear it again?"

"I'd love to."

He dug a couple of coins from his pocket and fed the machine. "How about a dance this time?"

Although Lydia had never actually seen anyone dance at Ned's, she didn't care. She just smiled and took his hand. She remembers how her heart quickened when Stiles slid his right arm around her, bringing her closer than she anticipated.

Through the first few bars, she gazed at him while they swayed, mesmerized by his pretty eyes and barely-there smile. Soon, the ache to be even closer won out. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and she remembered what it felt like – the first time she slow danced with Stiles...

At the Winter Formal, he had held her in a way she only ever dreamed of being held, a way she wasn't even sure existed up until then. When they moved together, it was familiar and natural. There was also an element of awe; discovery of a connection to someone she had hardly allowed herself to know, making her curious and encouraging her deeper into his embrace. Unfortunately, that moment was also marked by confusion and indecision. Lydia felt pulled in two directions – who she thought she supposed to be versus who she wanted to be, her past versus her possible future, leaving her riddled with doubt in the present.

On the night of Senior Scribe, all of the good between them remained, but the uncertainty and hesitation were gone. Lydia was drawn in only one direction – towards Stiles. She knew that _his_ was the heart hers would always want to follow, that he was the one who would always guide her to the light.

When the song ended, he played it once more. They danced in their own little corner of the diner. Lydia repositioned her head on his chest, and Stiles rested his chin on her temple. She remembers the persistent rhythm of his beats, pulsing in tune with the music and enriching it with his own unique notes. Lydia could feel her heart gradually filling up with the affection and tenderness Stiles always showed her, the nearness of him, making her troubles seem further away...and her best dreams closer than ever before.

As the first light of dawn peeked over the horizon, she remembers letting herself picture it – _them_ in the future on a perfect summer day. Happy. Together.

* * *

 **Present Day**

When Lydia opens her eyes, she and Stiles are still standing beneath the sycamore tree. He has both arms encircling her and she can feel his heartbeat against her spine.

She lets her head drop back to his shoulder.

"Hey," he greets her, pressing his lips to her cheek.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. It's okay. You were still with me..." he assures her, holding up their intertwined hands. "You kept squeezing my hand."

She turns in his arms, hugs him _so tight._

His tone is pure and considerate when he checks, "You alright, Lyds?"

"I'm with you... Everything's perfect."

They stay like that; Lydia on the tips of her toes, cuddling as close as she can get, and Stiles stroking her hair and swaying her a bit.

"How about we leave our mark on that tree?" he suggests.

"But we don't have a—"

"Pocket knife? Got that covered," he informs her, almost magically presenting her with a red Swiss Army knife.

Her heart swells with understanding. "So, you didn't just remember the tree once we were here... You had this in mind all along."

"Guilty," he grins, giving her a quick, butterfly-inspiring peck on the lips. "I've been dreaming about doing this with you ever since I was thirteen years old. Last night, after you and I talked about coming here, I asked my dad if I could borrow it. It's the same one he and my mom used. You should have seen the smile on his face. I know it would have made my mom just as happy."

"Stiles..."

She cups his face in her hands, kisses him slow and deliberate. When she opens her eyes, his are still closed, lashes damp. She continues to caress his cheeks and waits for him to make eye contact.

"Can we put ours next to your parents'?"

"Yeah, I think that's exactly where it belongs."

Then Lydia watches Stiles as he carefully sculpts their heart into the True Love Tree, tears up over the dedicated way he carves her initials inside of it, smiles when he looks over his shoulder and says, "Your turn."

She steps closer and devotes every ounce of love she feels into shaping two letters: MS, and one very significant symbol: an infinity sign. The finished work looks just like the pendant Stiles gifted her.

"What do you think?"

"I think..." he replies, as he rubs her shoulders, "this moment is even better than I ever imagined it could be."

They admire their handiwork, fingers exploring the indelible mark they have ingrained as well as the one that Noah and Claudia created. Somehow, it makes what she and Stiles have even more exceptional – like they are the next link in a succession of great love stories. There is only one thing that could make this day more memorable.

"Stiles?"

"Hmm..."

Lydia takes his phone from his pocket and cues up Claudia's song on his playlist.

"Will you dance with me?"

His smile is bright and emotive when he realizes she remembers. "I'd love to."

He takes her in his arms, and they meld into a leisurely rhythm. She gazes into his eyes, kisses him often, delighted that she doesn't have to withhold her feelings anymore.

"This is all I want in the world..." Stiles tells her. "To spend whole days and nights with you. I can't get enough of you, Lydia – never will."

"It's all I want too. And it's all been worth it... Hasn't it? Everything it took to get us here..."

"Every single second."

She rests her head on his shoulder, tucks her nose into his neck while he hums the lyrics to her, soft and sweet and low. They dance, song after song, and they don't let go. The breeze is still blowing through the trees, sun hanging low in the sky. In a few hours, it will set, and the moonrise will herald the inception of another night.

Lydia smiles. She hopes it's a long one.

Because long nights have a different meaning for her now. They don't generate the same fears nor make her painfully cognizant of a void in her life.

Now, they are filled with love; the same love she felt on the night in her memory, heightened by freedom of expression. Through whispered conversations about shared memories and future plans. In laughter, hugs, and kisses under crisp cotton sheets. In the passionate energy between bare bodies, and in the calm that settles afterward...like a snowflake falling slowly in a globe.

Now, every long night is one to look forward to. Every long night the carries the promise of a beautiful new dawn, another chance to spend a day with the one she loves most.

Claudia was right to remember those lyrics. Their message is true, after all: _The longer the night, the sweeter the dawn._

* * *

 _Note:_ The sycamore tree is considered to be a symbol of protection, hope, and eternity.


	26. I Know

Thank you, for saving this life and giving me back to myself;  
thank you for teaching me, reminding me, and for the comfort  
that came effortless and swift every time I knew I needed it,  
but more for every time I did not know I did.  
\- Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

It's July 8th, and Stiles doesn't know it...but it's his birthday. Technically, it's his quarter birthday, which isn't actually a thing... No matter. This year, Lydia is _making_ it a thing. Because in April, when they should have been together to celebrate his eighteenth, Stiles was gone.

But now, he is here, and Lydia is determined to make up for the time they lost. She fully intends to celebrate the life of the person whose presence, in every sense of the word, makes her happier than she ever imagined she could be.

She thinks she figured out a way to show Stiles how much he was missed, how glad she is to have him back. It's nothing over the top, nothing fussy or formal. Just a quiet night with some of his favorite things. Things that are near and dear to his heart...and as a result, hers too.

Keeping her plans covertly concealed from him over the past two weeks has been a challenge. The fact is, he notices everything – an averted glance, the slightest hesitation to answer, even a nervous laugh – anything could be a clue to him. And, while she adores how innately perceptive he is, that quality also makes it really difficult to surprise him.

Difficult, but not impossible.

So, she took a few extra precautions to safeguard her secret. Thanks to some help from Scott and Noah, all the details are in place, and she is certain that every minute of preparation that went into this evening will be worth it...especially when she gets to see the look on Stiles's face.

Now, all she has to do is wait. He will be here soon.

Lydia finishes curling the ends of her hair, then braids a small section from the right side to her crown and secures it in place with her royal blue butterfly comb – one from the set of two that Stiles bought for her in San Francisco. When she hears the Jeep roll into the driveway, she can almost feel its vibrations rumbling under her skin. She takes a deep breath and one last glimpse in the mirror, smoothing out the bodice of her white floral romper before shutting the lights in her bedroom and dashing into the hallway.

Just as she approaches the staircase, Stiles is striding through the front door and locking it behind him. He turns, and Lydia gets a surprise of her own, because the look of excitement she has been hoping to see is already there – arched brows, bright eyes, gorgeous smile and all. And the best part is, she recognizes that it's because of her.

"Hi, angel," he calls.

He is looking up at her like she is all he wants in the world, and her whole body tingles with the anticipation of being in his arms. The energy it creates propels her forward on a cloud of serendipitous emotion. Lydia soars down the stairs and leaps into his welcoming arms, her legs looping around his torso as he whirls them in a circle.

It's so easy – the way they fit together, the balance between them. It feels like they are each other's satellite, both of them making a single perfect revolution, pulled within the intense gravity of their very own sun.

The concept fills her heart with contentment. She wants to delay untangling from their embrace for as long as possible, so she kisses him...and she kisses him, their lips tethered together and chests heaving with breathlessness. Then she clings to him; her arms resting on his strong shoulders, her hands tangling in his silky hair, and her nose pressed to his warm cheek.

After the room stops spinning, she gives Stiles one more kiss...because she can, and she wants to.

"Well that was quite a greeting..." he comments with a crooked grin.

"What can I say? I missed you...and I'm very, _very_ happy to see you," she emphasizes, ardently chasing his mouth for yet another kiss.

"Mmm... I missed you too. I've been thinking about this all day...getting to hold you...kiss you." He squeezes her tighter, then dips down to bury his nose in her neck. "God, you smell good," he compliments before rather reluctantly setting her down. Then, he takes both of her hands in his and steps back to admire her. "Wow... Lydia, you look... _Wow..."_

She sees the emotive way his eyes catch the butterfly in her hair, smiles when he reaches out to touch it.

"I...uh... I thought we were just kicking back tonight. Did you change your mind? Are we going somewhere?" he inquires.

"In a manner of speaking..." she replies vaguely, returning his hands to her waist.

"I probably should have worn something else then," he grimaces, referring to his well-worn grey and white baseball tee and faded black jeans.

"No," she shakes her head, gliding her hands over his shoulders and chest. "You look perfect. Absolutely perfect."

He bashfully smirks at her. "So...where are we going?"

"To a galaxy far, far away."

His expression shifts, pensive curiosity coming across as he narrows his eyes and scrunches up his mouth.

"It's a surprise."

"I love your surprises..." he smiles, leaning in for another kiss.

"Good...then come with me," her lips murmur against his.

As they walk down the hallway and through to the kitchen he remarks, "Hey, it's too quiet in here. Where's Prada?"

"Don't worry. She's just outside," Lydia answers, stopping by the French doors that open to the patio. She faces Stiles, palpable current of electricity flowing between their linked digits. "I need you to close your eyes now."

He complies, trust in her pure and effortless.

"And no peeking... Promise?"

"Promise."

She turns the doorknob and lets the partition swing open. Then, she puts his hands on her shoulders and begins to step backwards onto the patio.

"I've got you. Okay?"

"I know you do," he confirms, confidently following her lead – same as she follows his when they dance.

"Now step down. Careful... That's it." She checks behind her to make sure they are exactly where she wants them to be. "Okay, stop."

They both come to a halt, and she can feel him tighten his grip before roaming the length of her arms.

"Are you ready?" she asks as he intertwines their fingers.

"Yeah...totally."

He is already smiling, and she reflexively clutches his hands.

"Alright, open your eyes," she whispers.

And when he does, they immediately widen at how the familiar space has been transformed...

Lydia has enclosed a section of the patio with thick, blue drapes. Strands of multi-colored lights suspend from column to column, their incandescence illuminating the alcove. Three of the lounge chairs – one of which seats an exuberantly grinning Scott...who happens to be holding a perky-eared Prada – are facing a large projector screen. The screen is mounted against the exterior wall of the house and framed by two giant balloon bouquets. And last, but not least, is the portable projector which has been paused on the opening title of _The Empire Strikes Back_ , Stiles's favorite of the original Star Wars trilogy.

Lydia watches as he blinks, eyes fascinated, absorbing every detail like he is trying to memorize it.

"Guys, what..." he finally verbalizes with jaw-slackened awe.

"Happy birthday!" Lydia and Scott exclaim together. Even Prada chimes in with four small, high-pitched barks.

"Happy bir—" he starts to question before comprehension settles in. "Oh... I um..." he stammers, running a slightly shaking hand through his hair as Scott gets up to join them.

Lydia places her hand over Stiles's heart. "We couldn't let this year go by without— We missed you so much," she explains over the briskly forming lump in her throat.

"Yeah, buddy... We're so glad to have you back," Scott adds, patting Stiles on the shoulder.

Stiles bows his head, grasps for Lydia's hip, and for a split-second, she worries that it's all too much.

"Stiles, is this okay?"

He promptly lifts his gaze to meet hers. His eyes are shining, lashes damp, but he is smiling, same as he was when he walked through her door minutes earlier.

 _"Okay?"_ he exclaims while stroking Prada's ears. "This is... This is incredible. I love it."

When he melts into her, he tows Scott and Prada along with him. He is overwhelmed but happy. Lydia can feel just how much in the way his arm goes tight around her, and in the quiver of his lips which are delivering a series of tiny kisses to her neck.

Their little group hug lasts until Prada starts squirming to get free. Scott sets the pup down and she instantly springs onto one of the lounge chairs. They all laugh at her playful antics and take the not so subtle hint; Scott drops into the chair on the far right, Stiles in the middle, and Lydia shares with Prada on his left.

"I guess Lydia and I are gonna have to catch you up on the first film, Scotty," Stiles sighs dramatically as he grabs a handful of popcorn.

"Nah... I already saw it," Scott shrugs with a wave of his hand.

"What? _When?"_

Scott's nonchalant façade cracks, his expression serious when he reveals, "A couple of months ago. I had the DVD just sitting in my room, but I couldn't remember when I got it or where it came from... One night, I gave in and watched it."

The trace of sadness in his response reminds Lydia of the vulnerability and heartache he had confided when he said: _I can't lose Stiles._ All those months, he was the only person who understood what she was going through.

Scott and Stiles exchange a solemn look. Neither has uttered another syllable, yet Lydia is implicitly aware that their dialogue is ongoing. The boys have their own tacit language – gestures, and glances, and nudges which she never tires of observing.

Stiles clears his throat and taps Scott's knee with the back of his knuckles. "So...uh... Did you like it at least?"

Scott is the first to rupture into a dynamic smile. "I kinda loved it."

Lydia happily regards Stiles, his entire countenance altering with bemused joy.

 _"And you're just telling me this now?_ I can't believe—" He pauses mid-gripe to say, "Thanks, Lyds," when she pours each of them a glass of raspberry iced tea. Then he sneaks her a quick kiss and slips right back into the lighthearted, brotherly rapport by tossing a few pieces of popcorn at Scott. "Dude, I've been trying to get you to watch for like a decade!"

"Well, in case you didn't notice...a lot's been going on," Scott retorts while collecting the buttery kernels from his black V-neck. " _And_ it would have ruined the surprise," he contends before devouring them.

Lydia sips some tea and watches them bicker, thinking about how lucky she is to have them both in her life.

"Seriously though, how'd you guys pull this off? I really had no clue you were up to anything."

"It was all Lydia," Scott declares. "She planned everything. Your dad and I just helped with the logistics."

 _"My dad was in on this too?_ Should I be worried at how good you all are at deceiving me?"

"Definitely not," Lydia assures Stiles with a laugh. "It was torture keeping this from you."

He gives her an adoring look. "Scott, she's amazing. Isn't she?"

"She sure is," he agrees with earnest sincerity. "She's the only reason I made it through those months without you."

Her eyes mist, and she blushes. "Alright you two... I'm not crying tonight so...why don't we start the movie?"

"You heard her, Scott," Stiles directs, passing him the remote control. "I just hope you're prepared to love this one more than the first 'cause—"

"It's the best of the original trilogy," Scott finishes with a chuckle.

"What? Have I mentioned that already?" Stiles jests.

"Once or twice," Scott and Lydia reply in unison.

Before they begin, Stiles seeks a moment with Lydia. Resting his palms on her thighs, he inches closer and lovingly breathes her name. She cups his face, thumbs away a stray tear from his cheek, and gives him a soft kiss. She knows there is so much he wants to tell her, but he doesn't need to.

"I know," she promises. "Stiles, I know."

There is a memory there – linked to those words and the meaning behind them. She can feel it. Always in the back of her mind. _So close. Getting closer every day..._

Once they all settle in, Scott hits _Play_ , and the opening score fills their cozy section of the patio with sound. Stiles stretches out on his lounge chair and finds Lydia's hand; so natural, so instinctive, so right. The feelings it inspires are tied to the memory too. Something in the way they reach for each other, how significant it is, how much it grounds her. She closes her eyes and one night in particular immediately comes to mind.

 _She remembers the night she realized that Stiles was with her on the lacrosse field..._

* * *

It happened during the summer between sophomore and junior year.

Lydia remembers that she was with Stiles on an evening in July. They were in his room, piles of timeworn texts that Deaton had provided spread out in front of them.

She was still trying to wrap her head around _that_ little revelation – the fact that Prada's veterinarian doubled as a doctor and mentor for mystical creatures. Lydia tried not to think about how bizarre that was when she brought Prada into the clinic for checkups, but once you know things...you can't unknow them. She was Alice, and she had most certainly tumbled down the proverbial rabbit hole.

It hadn't been an easy transition. For months, she had been left in the dark, left with no choice but to doubt her own sanity while this secret loomed like dense fog, obscuring her view and making her fear what was ahead of her. Then, on her sixteenth birthday of all days, she was dragged into a horrific supernatural awakening. The truth was finally exposed, but it was incomprehensible. It went against the laws of science and reason, everything she believed in, and she couldn't accept it. So for several weeks afterward, Lydia retreated; staunchly denying every harrowing experience, every grisly flashback since that autumn night outside the video store...when she saw a creature with glowing red eyes.

But it didn't help one bit. The mounting list of unanswered questions and constant uncertainty made her feel even more lost and afraid. She was restless in the daytime, and her nightmares were worsening. So, Lydia pulled herself together, decided that she needed the facts, details she could analyze and interpret. Knowledge was power, after all. It was only logical that the best way to protect herself would be to learn everything she could about the uncharted territory she was hedging on.

And she knew just the person to go to for help.

 _Stiles._

Ever since the morning they met at Beryl Cove, Lydia and Stiles had been spending a lot of time together.

Allison was in France for the summer. Lydia wasn't going to waste precious minutes of their phone conversations discussing werewolves or the purpose of mountain ash. Those were the last things Allison needed to talk about...after what she had been through. She needed time away from all of that. Time to heal.

Luckily, Stiles knew just as much as Allison did. Plus, he had this _way_ of explaining things. Somehow, his words always made sense to her...even though nothing about the existence of werewolves really made sense. True, he had been part of the infamous conspiracy, but he apologized for that. From very early on, he had wanted to be upfront with her, but it wasn't his secret to tell. Lydia understood that, and she had nothing but respect for his loyalty to Scott. Quite frankly, it was easy to forgive Stiles. He was her friend, and she trusted him. He had proven time and again that she hadn't made a mistake in doing so.

Though the whole concept of seeking out supernatural tutoring seemed ridiculous, as soon as she asked Stiles for help, Lydia knew she had made the right choice. She remembers the expression on his face when she showed up on his doorstep one afternoon. It didn't matter that there wasn't a single ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds – his shy smile was bright enough to light up the entire neighborhood.

That was how it started.

Then it continued, and the more time they spent together, the more time Lydia _wanted_ to spend together. Stiles didn't seem to mind either. He met with her often, always sought to make plans for the next visit before they parted ways.

More often than not, meetings that were only supposed to be an hour or so turned into _more._ They would talk...and talk, about all kinds of things. Normal things. Sometimes, they would have dinner together or watch a movie to unwind. Their interactions were comfortable and uncomplicated, but far from boring. She never knew it could be like that with a boy – no pretense, no games, just two people getting to know each other. It was an unexpected and welcome change.

Lydia tried to pace herself. She wasn't looking for a boyfriend, and she didn't want to give Stiles the wrong impression...but there was just _something_ about him. He made it impossible not to look forward to seeing him.

It didn't hurt that he was smart. _Really smart._ She liked how he challenged her, how quickly his mind worked, how he saw connections between things that other people missed.

It didn't hurt that Stiles made it implicitly clear how much he cared for her. In the big ways obviously – he had told her as much. But there were all these little things too. Like how he always adjusted the settings on his laptop, so she never had to toil with a right-handed mouse, or how he always gave her the extra pillow when they sat on his bed. He always just happened to have a package of Reese's on the nightstand for them to share. It was always set on top of a napkin, so Lydia had somewhere to wipe the melted chocolate that inevitably ended up on her fingertips because she always ate hers so slowly. He always made sure she was laughing by the end of the night, never let her go home with gruesome images stuck in her head. He always walked her to her car and always waited on the porch until she drove away.

Lydia had never felt so cared for in her life. It was kind of intimidating – not that she was going to admit that to anyone, but mostly, it felt... _good._ She cared for Stiles too. More each day. Every time she was with him, she kept feeling that tugging sensation. It was getting stronger, made her want to be where he was. She found herself thinking about him when they were apart too, remembering something he said or did, wondering what he was doing. She would want to call him whenever she read or saw something that only he would understand. Sometimes, she did. Stiles would always answer his phone with a _Hey, Lydia_... and her heart rate would respond to the note of excitement in his voice.

It didn't hurt that he was cute either. Actually, he was more than cute. Stiles was beautiful – inside and out.

That summer evening, they were sitting on his bed. Lydia was cross-legged with a heavy text resting on her lap. Stiles was beside her with his right leg stretched out and the left bent underneath, his knee only a fraction of an inch from hers.

He was explaining the symbolic meaning of the triskelion in relation to the phases of the Moon. Lydia remembers that she kept watching his hands – how gracefully they skimmed the pages of the book, how his fingertips occasionally brushed against hers as he traced the interlocked spiral pattern or pointed out a line in the text. It was a struggle not to smile _every_ time it happened. She kept feeling this glimmer of energy between them. It traveled right to her stomach, tickling it, making it clench. She remembers that every once in a while, Stiles would rake his hands over the ends of his hair, which was starting to grow in from his usual buzz cut. It looked good, suited his personality better. She could easily imagine the places where it might tend to stick up, places where natural waves would want to take shape. She also remembers the way he would lightly tap her wrist to get her attention...as if he didn't already have it. Oftentimes, his index would linger on her skin, heat of that single digit spreading outwards in every direction. It made her want to look into his eyes, where more warmth was always waiting for her. When she did, she remembers noticing rays of sunlight, how they streamed through the windows, refracted through his brown irises, and made them flare with gold.

Suddenly, a question occurred to her.

Without fully considering whether it was wise to proceed, she asked, "What do the different colors mean?"

"Huh?"

"Scott, when he shifts into a wolf, his eyes are yellow, but Derek's...aren't."

She had meant to say _red – Derek's eyes are red,_ but she changed course at the last second.

Lydia cringed internally at her inability to utter a simple word. The back of her neck began to prickle, traces of compulsory muscle memory seeping into her stream of consciousness. That was when she recognized her mistake. She wasn't ready to talk about this yet. She was still haunted by red eyes. Red eyes were the last thing she saw before she felt a searing pain in her side that made her collapse on the lacrosse field. Derek hadn't been the one who attacked her. He didn't terrorize her for three long months afterward either – creeping into her mind whenever he wanted, making her hallucinate, compelling her to do things she didn't want to do. That was all his uncle. But it didn't matter. The blood red of his wolf eyes was identical. Those eyes plagued her nightmares. Sometimes she would even see them when she was awake – glaring at her, taunting her, lunging at her out of shadow.

She blinked rapidly, refocusing on the beauty and integrity of Stiles's eyes. It helped.

He observed her for a minute before answering, "Oh...um...that basically has to do with ranking in the pack. It's like a reflection of werewolf social hierarchy. Betas like Scott or Isaac, Erica, and Boyd...they all have yellow eyes. Derek's were blue for some reason. We're not sure why that is... Anyway, when he became an alpha, he gained a fair amount of power, and they changed to—"

Lydia remembers the sound of the doorbell interrupting him.

"Oh, that's gotta be dinner."

"Right," she nodded, grateful for a diversion from the unsettling trajectory their conversation had taken. "Whose turn is it?"

"Mine," Stiles replied as he climbed over her to get out of the bed.

That was when it happened.

The scent of pine needles surrounded her, familiar and laden with memories of childhood and beyond...

Of treasured holidays, before her family dissolved in front of her eyes. Of slow dancing under shimmering lights...and rides in the Jeep...and sitting next to each other in class...and gentle hands steadily guiding her over slick ice...and...something else...

Lydia distinctly remembers hearing the words: _No. I'm not just letting you leave her here._

And it hit her...

 _Stiles was there. On the lacrosse field – with her._

She gasped through an inhale.

He was already halfway to the door, but he turned back. "Lydia, you okay?"

Her head snapped up. "Yeah, fine," she fibbed, armored reflex to disguise her distress robotically taking hold.

Stiles hesitated, so she forced a small smile, then tucked her hair behind her ear and began flipping through the hardcover in front of her.

"Are you sure? 'Cause—"

"Stiles, I said I'm fine. Don't keep the delivery guy waiting," she deflected.

"Right. I'll uh...be right back," he conceded.

"'Kay."

As soon as he was out of the room, she put the book aside and got up from the bed. Her heart raced as her bare feet padded over the carpet...back and forth, back and forth. She knew she didn't have a lot of time, but that was exactly what she needed. Time to think. To remember _everything._

The only way to do that was to be alone, which meant...

She had to leave.

She remembers how her hands trembled as she put on her sandals. A lump was forming in her throat, and an unsolicited surplus of tears distorted her vision. Quickly, she wiped her eyes and took a breath. She didn't want Stiles to see her so upset, especially when she couldn't explain why.

She was grabbing her keys and phone off his desk when his voice carried in from the hall.

"Okay, dinner's in the kitch—"

He was about to reenter the room when she passed him in the doorway. She remembers how her heart swelled at the sight of his sweet smile, then sank with a dull ache as she watched it wither with confusion.

"Lydia, what—where are you going?"

She steeled herself. She just had to keep it together long enough to get to her car.

"I just remembered... There's something I'm supposed to do."

"Right now?" he questioned skeptically.

"Yeah, right now."

"But what about—"

"Dinner? Yeah, sorry... I really have to go though," she maintained, heading down the hallway.

"Wait... Hang on a sec," he protested, looping his fingers around her elbow. "Tell me what's wrong."

Her stomach fluttered. His touch was so tender that it made her forget...everything, and she let herself look at him. Concern so apparent, he was open, waiting for the truth. Knowing she couldn't give that to him made the fluttering mutate into a throbbing twinge. Lydia had lied to boys before. It was easy. But she remembers that the thought of lying _to Stiles_ was appalling. Everything in her body was rejecting it.

"Nothing's wrong," she quivered. "I just have to... I have to..."

"Go? Yeah...you said that."

She couldn't think of a response worthy of him, so she averted her gaze and shoved her phone in the pocket of her floral shorts.

"At least let me walk you out."

His dejected tenor made her chest constrict.

 _Why did it have to hurt so much?_

"I can find my way to the door, Stiles," she snipped, sharpness in her own tone like a knife against her throat.

He let go of her arm but followed her to the foyer, nonetheless. "I'm aware of that, but we always... Lydia, I—I don't understand what just happened."

The offended grief he expressed was pushing the blade deeper. She kept her head down and her back to him as she pulled open the front door.

"I'll call you later," she choked out, stubborn tears sneaking out of the corners of her eyes as she exited the house.

"Right..."

Ashamed and guilt ridden, she hurried to her car without another word.

The inner voice which frequently reminded her that Stiles was too good for her, that all she would ever do is hurt him got louder...and louder.

But she could still hear him call after her, loud and clear, "Lydia...just be careful. Will you?"

She swiftly got behind the steering wheel, looking ahead as she jabbed the key into the ignition. The sun was going down, and the sky was horizontally split into two bands of color – pale blue above a fiery shade of orange.

 _Orange and blue – a perfect combination,_ she thought.

And it made her feel worse about what she had done.

She remembers catching a glimpse of Stiles as she pulled away from the curb. He was standing on the porch, shoulders slumped, one arm outstretched...still watching as she drove off, like always.

A guttural sob tore from the back of her larynx as she sped down the block. She came to an abrupt stop at the sign on the corner, turned right, and parked in the first available space. Then she cut the engine, covered her face with her hands, and tried to remember.

As disturbing as it was, she let herself picture those malicious red eyes – down to the last detail, but the memory wouldn't come.

Frustrated, she dragged her hands away from her face, hot salty tears smearing over her cheeks, beneath her palms. When she opened her eyes, a last beam cast by the setting sun flashed in her eyes, blinding her with its light...and she remembered...

* * *

She was on the lacrosse field, only moonlight to lessen the pitch-black night. She was looking for Jackson. Arms wrapped tightly around herself, she shivered in the bitter winter air.

Suddenly, the high-mast lights above the bleachers flashed on. One by one. She squinted, their beams in her eyes, blinding bright. Out of the darkness below them, someone was approaching her, striding with a familiar callous confidence.

"Jackson, is that you? Jackson... Is that you?" she called warily, upshot of trepidation reducing her volume.

Within seconds, she heard someone scream her name from the opposite end of the field.

 _"Lydia! Runnnn!"_

She knew that voice.

 _It was Stiles._

She turned to face him, saw that he was sprinting towards her. At the same time, Lydia felt the presence behind her getting closer.

She turned again, realizing too late that it wasn't Jackson. It was a man. _No._ Not a man – _a monster,_ with glowing red eyes.

There was no time to retreat. She couldn't even cry out or flinch.

It attacked, bearing ferocious, pointed fangs as it roared.

The next thing she remembered was acute pain, striking below her left ribs. Her muscles seized with shock, then went limp. She plummeted to the ground, landing on her right flank, only dormant turf and frozen earth to cushion her fall. The brusque collision knocked the breath from her lungs while the clout of its impact reverberated all the way down to her bones.

There was movement around her, rustling noises – some concurrent with the ominous shadow that was descending upon her, the rest as if someone were sliding across the grass on their knees.

Lydia remembered opposing voices:

Stiles, frightened as he implored, "Don't kill her. Please..."

and the monster, apathetic as it mocked, "Of course not. Just tell me how to find Derek."

She knew she was bleeding, felt it soaking into the satin of her dress but was powerless to do anything about it. Neither of her arms would move; one pinned under the oppressive weight of the monster, the other lifelessly extended in front of her. She remembered the opalescent polish on her nails and the faint sparkle of her new ring as she slowly blinked.

The voices waned in and out...until something which she could only assume was the monster's claw scraped along the side of her face and neck. Her skin crawled through every torturous second of the contact. Then it stopped, increasing pressure at the pulse point of her neck. Senses heightened by fear, she remembered the metallic scent of her own blood wafting from the monster's stale breath when it threatened to _rip her apart._

Those ugly, menacing words sent a lightning bolt of panic up her spine. Her entire body tensed as she attempted to brace herself for the imminent pain. She remembered wanting to hide, to go where the monster couldn't hurt her anymore. She didn't want to die, but it was a struggle to remain conscious. She was _so cold,_ and the obscurity behind her lids was tempting her to give in. Maybe if she just let go, it wouldn't hurt so much. She let her eyes close...

* * *

 _"No."_ The echo of Stiles's voice stirred her mind awake. "No. I'm _not_ just letting you leave her here," he defiantly contended.

By then, the monster was no longer crouched over her. Its sinister intonation was also farther from her ear when it flatly replied, "You don't have a choice, Stiles. You're coming with me."

"Just kill me. Look, I don't care anymore!"

Lydia remembered the anguish and exasperation in Stiles's tone. She could almost feel the ground shaking with the emotion he emitted. But then, it got eerily quiet, and something shifted inside of her. The last morsels of warmth she had left were fading – Stiles was being pulled away from her.

 _Don't hurt him. Please, don't hurt him._ She held her breath, waiting...

"Call your friend. Tell Jackson where she is. That's all you get," the monster sneered before the distant crunch of footsteps announced its departure.

Stiles called after it, "But what if—"

"That's all you get," the hollow voice impatiently interjected.

He didn't respond.

 _"Stiles!"_ the monster growled.

 _"Will you gimme a minute?_ Just _one_ minute," he snapped back.

After that, Stiles must have moved closer, because when she finally inhaled...Lydia remembered being surrounded by the soothing scent of pine needles. Just like at the dance, when she had her head on his shoulder.

"Lydia... Lydia, hang on," he whispered while his gentle hand brushed her hair away from her face. _"_ You're going to be okay. You have to be. Please, just keep breathing. Please, Lydia."

Droplets were splashing on her cheeks. For a moment, she thought it had started to rain, but then she realized they were tears. _His tears._ Stiles was crying... _for her._ He cared about her _that much._ He had risked his life, put himself between her and the monster, and was still seeking to reassure her. His courage gave her the strength to open her eyes long enough to see him.

He was kneeling in front of her, tears sprinkling off the ends of his lashes, radiant gold in his eyes. It was beautiful – like being caught in a sun shower.

"Lydia, can you hear me? Please, don't let go."

She remembered the way his hand was clutching hers, anchoring her to life, _to him._

Gradually, his warmth spread through her, and she didn't hurt anymore. She remembered the calm that blanketed her.

She squeezed his hand and smiled.

And she was safe. There was music, slow and soulful. There were pretty lights all around her, swirling like her stomach...while she danced with her head nestled on the shoulder of a boy who held her like she was the most precious thing in the world. _Stiles._

* * *

When Lydia opened her eyes, it was dark. Her cheeks were hot and still damp with tears. All she could think about was Stiles – this beautiful, kindhearted boy who always listened to her, always showed her how much he cared...and even saved her life.

And she left him. _Again._

Her stomach twisted up with remorse, generating pangs of discomfort that spread to her chest.

 _How could I leave him like that? What kind of person am I? Maybe the kind that doesn't deserve his friendship._

Except she wanted to be – _so much,_ and something told her that the way to be that person was to go back, to face her mistake and explain everything to him.

So, Lydia started up her car, and flicked on the headlights. Then, she slowly circled the block, hoping that a few extra moments would help her collect her thoughts.

When she parked in front of the Stilinski home, she still had no idea what she was going to say, but she let the tugging behind her ribs guide her forward. She remembers thinking that it was silly to try to script a dialogue with Stiles. That wasn't how they worked. They just talked.

Once she set foot on the curb, Lydia realized that she hadn't even bothered to check her reflection in the rear-view mirror like she normally would have done. She guessed that her makeup was probably a mess but somehow, it didn't matter. She just wanted to see Stiles and to make things right with him.

Fighting an upsurge of nervousness, she ran up the brick stairs that led to the porch and rang the doorbell. Then she held her breath, and she waited...

Within seconds, Stiles opened the door, and she exhaled.

She remembers the bewildered expression on his face, but there was nothing to indicate that he was angry with her or that he didn't want to see her.

"You came back," he said softly.

"I really need to talk to you," she quietly acknowledged.

"Alright."

He stepped aside to let her pass, but it was as if her body forgot how to move. She loitered on the other side of the door, chest heaving erratically.

"Lydia, come in. Come on..." he coaxed, reaching for her shoulder.

She crossed the threshold, let him lead her into the safety of his home. A place she was getting to know as well as her own, but which evoked completely different feelings...like comfort, acceptance, and belonging. A place that felt _lived in,_ had candid family photos on the walls, authentic scuff marks on the wood floors, and leftover chicken noodle soup in the fridge at least twice per month.

Stiles closed and bolted the door behind him, and Lydia stood in the foyer, biting her lip and staring at the rock, paper, scissors graphic on his tee shirt.

"Lydia—"

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I'm _so sorry._ I shouldn't have..." she apologized, shuddering with regret. "I didn't mean to..."

"Hey, it's alright," he steadied her, setting his palms on her shoulders.

She looked at the space between them – mere inches...but it was too much. His arms were open, hands just as gentle and warm as she remembered. She let her head drop to his chest, forehead leaning on his collar bone, nose smashed into his sternum. Without reluctance, he welcomed her closer, sighing as he enveloped her in a secure embrace.

"I'm sorry," she repeated through a fragile sob, arms fervently closing around his torso, fists grasping his shirt.

"Shh... It's okay, Lydia. It's okay."

They stayed locked together; Stiles ever so slightly rocking her while her heart thumped so loudly that she thought he might be able to hear it, and Lydia breathing him in, scent of pine needles soothing her until she calmed.

Eventually, he spoke, his low and forgiving twang vibrating under her ear when he disclosed, "I'm glad you came back. I was worried about you."

She felt one of his hands hesitantly cup the back of her head. He had never done that before, but she nuzzled closer, so he would know it was okay with her.

"Let's go inside, so we can talk," he suggested.

She nodded into his chest.

As if he knew she needed his support, Stiles kept one arm around her and walked her into the living room.

"Do you wanna sit down?"

"No."

She couldn't just then. There was too much emotion and nervous energy simmering inside of her. Lydia remembers that she started to pace.

Stiles watched her for a few seconds, then caught her wrist. "Hey, it's just you and me here."

She stilled in front of him.

"Lydia, you can tell me anything."

She remembers being drawn into his eyes again. There was so much kindness there, so much compassion.

"I can. Can't I?"

"Of course."

She inhaled deeply and wet her parched lips. "Okay, well...before, when you were explaining to me about the different colored eyes... I remembered something." She laced her fingers together, held them over her heart so it wouldn't burst out of her chest, then lifted her gaze to meet his. "Stiles, I know."

"What?"

"I know you were there that night...with me."

"What night?"

She couldn't say: _The night I was bitten._ It was still too raw, too awful to admit.

So she lifted the side of her top to bare her abdomen, then took his right hand with her left. "The night this happened..." she clarified, placing his palm directly over the jagged pink marks that permanently scarred her.

Stiles gaped at her; eyes a little wide, brows pinched together. His hand was tense, but Lydia kept it pressed against her. After a second or two he relaxed, expression softening, fingers gingerly conforming to her ribs.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" she asked.

His mouth opened and closed twice before he stammered, "I... Well, I—"

She shook her head. "Never mind. I know why?"

"You do?"

"Yeah, I do."

Of course she knew. Stiles was just _too good_ to do something like that. He sooner let her think someone else saved her life than take any credit for his own bravery.

She released the hem of her top, let the linen fabric cloak their joined hands, then reached for his blushing cheek. "I'm such an idiot."

"Don't say that," he corrected her, clasping his free hand around her wrist and briefly shutting his eyes. "It couldn't be further from the truth."

"But why didn't I just ask? All along, I had this feeling...like something didn't add up. My parents told me Jackson found me, carried me off the field, and I thought..."

"Lydia, all that matters is you're okay."

"No, what you did – that matters. It matters _so much."_ Tears began cascading from her eyes. "Stiles, you came looking for me, even though I...left. You were there for me, kept him from... All this time, I've been so afraid to remember, but it seems so obvious now. I should have known it was you." She swallowed thickly and went on, "Maybe I did...on some level... Jackson would have never come running for me. He told me as much."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "He actually said that to you?"

"Yeah."

"Damn... I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It's the most honest he's ever been with me. Anyway, I needed to hear it."

"You deserve better," he replied tenderly.

"I'm not so sure."

Before she even had the chance to be embarrassed by her self-deprecating response, he asserted, "I am."

She pursed her lips; both amazed at the contrast between the two boys and profoundly grateful that she never had to wonder if Stiles was telling her the truth. It made her want to get closer, to hug him again, squeeze him _so tight_ this time that he would never doubt how much she cared for him. He was _so good_ and _so sweet_ she could have kissed every inch of his face – right then and there. But she didn't. She wasn't going to ruin the first genuine friendship she had with a boy by being reckless with her affection.

Instead, she marveled, "Stiles, how am I ever going to thank you?"

"You don't have to," he shrugged. "You're alive. That's enough for me."

His words spun a lasso around her heart and tugged. Lydia gave in, let herself move closer, settled on a compromise between her mind and heart – first by kissing his cheek _once_ , aiming her lips at the adorable mole that punctuates the apple of his cheek, the one that disappears when he smiles, then by hugging him _almost_ as tightly as she had wanted.

"I'm alive because of you," she whispered.

He kept her in his arms but leaned back to look at her. "No, you survived that night because of you. Because you're strong, and you didn't give up." His beautiful eyes were glossy when he urged, "Don't ever forget that. Okay?"

He waited for her to nod her promise, then pulled her back one more time.

She breathed him in a bit longer, thought of nothing but their growing connection. She had never felt anything like it, and she was pretty sure it was so rare that she would never experience it with anyone else. She couldn't help but hope that Stiles felt it too. The way his smile rose against her temple made her think he did.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you still want to have dinner with me?"

With a chuckle, he answered, "Definitely."

"It's probably cold by now," she frowned, lifting her head to make eye contact.

"I think that's what microwaves are for," he winked.

Lydia excused herself to wash off what was left of her makeup, then they both went to the kitchen and easily fell into what was becoming their little ritual; Stiles heated and plated their meal while, Lydia set the table. He pulled out her chair...like always and waited for her to sit before settling beside her.

It was cozy in that room; the smallest in the house, located right at its center. Within those walls, there was just enough space for the essentials – basic white appliances, butcher block countertops, simple cabinetry painted in Claudia's favorite shade of sage green. There were post it notes on the refrigerator, dishes in the drain, and rows of family cookbooks on the open shelving that bordered the windows. The room was full – not cluttered, close but not uncomfortable. While Lydia and Stiles sat at the small table, sharing baked ravioli and breadsticks, she remembers thinking how nice it was that if two people were in the Stilinski kitchen, they could never be more than an arm's-length apart.

She continued to watch Stiles as they talked. His hands, and his eyes, and his smile were all communicating feelings to her with a uniquely captivating intensity, drawing her deeper into their conversation. At the same time, a question kept nagging at her. Though she feared the answer, not knowing seemed even worse. She needed the whole truth about the night Stiles saved her life.

Before she lost her nerve, she quickly gulped some water, then said, "Stiles, I need to ask you something."

He set his fork down, ever-considerate regard aimed at her. "Sure, what is it?"

"That night, did he... Did he hurt you?"

Glancing down, he sucked in his lower lip; the heavy silence which followed – a resounding confirmation that her concern had been warranted.

Her vision blurred, but she coaxed further, "Stiles... What did he do?"

Releasing his lip along with an unsteady exhale, he explained, "He made me leave you... He made me leave you, Lydia."

She remembers his anguish – same as it was on the lacrosse field. She remembers the way his hand trembled where it was resting on the table. Her desire to console him, to make his pain go away...maybe even help him heal was overwhelming.

Without hesitation, Lydia took his hand, knitted their fingers together. "You didn't leave me," she enlightened. "The last thing I remember is you. You held my hand, and you told me not to let go...and...everything changed."

He stared at her with awestruck curiosity. "How?"

"I didn't hurt anymore, and I wasn't cold or afraid... I was back at the dance with you. I was safe and...happy."

Stiles closed his eyes and brought their hands up to his forehead, and she could feel his tears sliding down her forearm. She remembers her thumb grazing his temple and her index and middle fingers wandering into his hairline while he spoke to her.

"Lydia, I've been going over that night in my head, for months...trying to figure out what I could have done differently." Voice buckling under the weight of emotion, he confessed, "It's been haunting me...thinking of you out there – cold, and hurting, and afraid."

"Well, now you know I wasn't," she assured him. "And it was all because of you."

He lifted his head to look at her, gripped her hand more firmly. "Thank you for telling me."

"Thank _you_...for everything."

She remembers the brightness in his eyes when he smiled back at her. She remembers the last of his tears, changing course as they passed over the upturned corners of his mouth.

Together, they shared the rest of their dinner at the small table in the cozy kitchen. All the while, Lydia kept hold of Stiles's hand...and she didn't let go.

* * *

 **Present Day**

When Lydia drifts out of memory, Stiles is still next to her, smiling, still holding her hand. He is exceptionally handsome in the dazzling aura of light which showers him with color in every hue of the rainbow. Every so often, he looks over at her or kisses the back of her palm, always reminding her that he is _with her,_ and he isn't letting go.

When the movie ends and the last of the popcorn is long gone, Scott, Stiles, and Lydia spend a good while talking and laughing, reminiscing in a way that only they can do. After everything they have been through, they need this divine moment...and hundreds more like it.

An hour before midnight, Prada is curled up on the sofa in the living room, and Lydia and Stiles are accompanying Scott to the front door.

"Thanks for being here, Scott. This was awesome."

Stiles brings him into a hug, and Scott vehemently returns the affection.

"Wouldn't have missed it for anything. Happy birthday, bro."

When Scott embraces Lydia and kisses her cheek, she whispers an extra _thank you_ into his ear.

"Talk to you guys tomorrow?"

"Yeah, definitely," Stiles says as he opens the door.

Scott steps onto the porch and turns back. "Hey...um... How about _Return of the Jedi_ at my house next week?"

"Ahh...admit it – you're hooked!" Stiles teases, bumping his best friend's shoulder with his fist.

"I just might be," Scott concedes, ducking his head as he laughs.

"Good. I'm in."

Together, Lydia and Stiles watch until Scott is out of sight. As she locks up, she can feel Stiles reaching for her, warmth of his presence filtering through her romper when his palm connects with her shoulder blade.

"You were remembering something earlier..." he states.

She rotates towards him, mouth quirked up on one side. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to me." He winds both arms around her and kisses her forehead. "So, what was it?"

"A missing piece of the puzzle...about the first time you saved my life."

His gold flecked eyes search her face – just as open, just as willing to listen as he was two years ago.

"I promise I'll explain everything later. Right now, I have one more surprise for you."

"Babe...you're spoiling me."

"That's the intention," she smiles.

She walks him to the kitchen – a room built around high-end finishes and not much else. A room that will never have the charm of the Stilinski kitchen, but which becomes a little cozier with each passing day. Because every meal they share, every dirty dish they clean, every laugh and kiss they exchange within those walls progressively fills the space with love.

Once Stiles is seated at the table, Lydia dims the lights and pops over to the refrigerator where she uncovers a small layer cake. She places it in front of him, brimming with delight over the astonished way he runs the back of his knuckles over his perfect crooked grin.

"Lydia... Did you make this?" he inquires, gazing up at her like she has done something miraculous.

"Uh-huh."

Pulling her into his lap, he praises, "It looks even better than the ones in the bakery." Then, he swipes a dollop of frosting with his finger...right down to the cake underneath. "Is that peanut butter frosting, with chocolate cake, and crushed up Reese's on top?"

"It is."

He sucks the frosting off his finger, eyes going wide as it dissolves on his tongue. "Oh my god... _so_ _good!_ "

"It had better be... I tested the recipe on poor Scott _three times_ , just to make sure. He may never eat cake again."

Stiles laughs out loud, then presses his lips to her cheek three times. "You really are amazing."

She suddenly feels flustered. "Baking is just science... Isn't it?"

"Maybe...in the most basic sense, but _this_ is so much more."

He is right. _Of course he is._ Everything between them has always been _more._ Lydia has never made a birthday cake for anyone – never even wanted to. Yet, in the last weeks, she has spent hours browsing the internet for recipes and watching instructional videos on cake decorating. She drove to three different grocery stores to find the right kind of baking chocolate and vanilla bean paste...and she enjoyed every minute of it. If ever there were a person worth the effort, it's Stiles.

"I really wanted tonight to be special for you."

"It is. It always is with you. This is the best birthday I've had in a long time. Thank you...for everything."

Smiling, she caresses his face and sprinkles a line of delicate kisses from his chin to his earlobe. Then, she ignites the orange and blue candles that adorn the top of the cake and encourages him to make a wish.

Stiles is misty-eyed, eighteen tiny flames twinkling like stars in his irises as he looks at Lydia.

"I love you," he tells her, heel of his hand finding her sternum, fingertips stroking the skin beneath her collarbone.

"I know," she replies.

He smiles, takes a breath, and blows out the candles.

"Next Saturday's your turn..." he casually informs her as he cuts into the cake. "The nineteenth. We're celebrating your birthday. I've already got plans of my own."

"You do?" she beams.

"Yeah, and I can't wait to surprise you."

They spend the next stretch of time talking, and cuddling, and feeding each other cake. And when they kiss, Stiles tastes like chocolate and peanut butter...and a lifetime of her own wishes come true.


	27. Keeping Out the Cold

You are the glow that  
illuminated me,  
you are the warmth  
that melted the frost  
I told myself I'd stay  
locked beneath.  
For nothing, you gave me  
everything.  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

On a rainy Friday afternoon, Lydia and Stiles are at the Beacon Hills Mall. Semi-annual sales are underway, and after the abuse her sandals took while she and Stiles were exploring the hilly streets of San Francisco, Lydia could use a new pair of shoes...or two. Her favorite espadrilles were among the casualties, but she has no regrets. She thinks about those four, gloriously carefree days they spent in the City by the Bay. An entire metropolis crowded with residents and visitors, but it felt like she and Stiles were the only two people in the world.

Lydia sighs at the blissful memory and checks her watch. She is due to meet with Stiles in half an hour, but she is already getting _that_ _tug_ that tells her they've been apart for too long.

In the last couple of hours, she has been to a handful of different stores and browsed through what felt like miles worth of retail space packed with clothing and accessories. Now, she is sitting between towering stacks of shoe boxes, testing the twelfth pair of sandals that cuts too tightly across her arches. As she leans down to adjust the straps, the heart pendant on her necklace swings, back and forth, like a pendulum; inherent force of gravity reminding her of Stiles each time the perfect combination of sea glass and sterling taps against her sternum. Her desire to restore equilibrium – to be _with him,_ grows stronger with each fluttering oscillation.

She wonders what he is doing right now. Shopping is not exactly his idea of fun, but this morning, when she mentioned her plans, Stiles offered to go along – without hesitation, without complaint, fully prepared to spend the entire day at the mall, if that was what she wanted.

She loves him for it...and so many reasons more.

Every day, her heart rattles off the list, beats faster when she discovers a new one, etching it into muscle memory, so she will _never forget._ It's easy to remember, each an affirmation of the truth: Stiles freed her from an icy slumber, melted the frost she thought she would stay locked beneath. His love has given her everything she ever dreamed of and so much more.

She wonders if he is thinking of her too. Maybe he is counting the minutes, seconds, milliseconds until they are together again. She hopes he is, so she won't be the only one.

Not five minutes later, Lydia decides she has had enough shopping for one day. The last thing she needs is another pair of shoes that hurts. She removes the sandals she was trying on, neatly sets them in their box, and pops them back on the shelf. Then, she slides into her taupe ballet flats and takes the escalator up to the second floor so she can wait for Stiles.

When she arrives at the top, she finds that he is already there, standing at the perfume counter. She watches him fondly as he pokes through the collection of samples, picks up one of the testers, and sprays it into the air. Breath brusquely abridged, his nose begins to twitch, then scrunches up, elbow shielding his face as his whole body jolts with the force of his sneeze, once... _twice_...

And she remembers.

 _She remembers a night during sophomore year – the first time she made a real connection with Stiles..._

* * *

She and Allison were at the mall, shopping for dresses to wear to the Winter Formal. It was supposed to be fun – retail therapy her mother always called it, but there was an uncomfortable tension in the air. It had been like that for a couple of weeks. Ever since _the incident_...with Scott. Okay, obviously not Lydia's best moment. She was aware of that. But how many times was she expected to apologize? It's not like she was proud of what she had done. She wasn't even sure what had come over her. All she knew was that she regretted it _and_ that it was NEVER going to happen again. Lydia would just as soon forget the whole thing and move on.

Easier said than done. Allison was quiet. Too quiet. She barely spoke a word to Lydia during the drive over, and frankly, it was getting on her nerves. Partly because it made her feel more guilty than she already did, but mostly because deep down, she believed that there was another reason for Allison's silence. It felt like her friend was keeping something from her. Something major.

Lydia wondered whether it was linked to all the weird occurrences that had been going on, too many to dismiss as simple coincidence. She remembers that her suspicions were first alerted one day in the cafeteria. Allison was reading aloud from a text which described an eighteenth-century legend about a wolf-like monster called the Beast of Gévaudan. According to the book, this beast had terrorized a small town in France for several years until it was killed by a hunter – whose last name was Argent. Lydia remembers how her stomach churned when Allison showed her the illustration of a creature with vicious red eyes. It looked disturbingly similar to something Lydia had seen one terrifying night outside the video store – the thing everyone else kept insisting was a mountain lion.

That was only the beginning. There were several other instances that left Lydia with an unsettling amount of questions. Like not knowing what _really_ happened the night she and Allison were locked in the high school with Jackson, Scott, Stiles...and someone else...maybe even some _thing_ else. There was also the time Allison somersaulted off the roof of her house to sneak out for a date with Scott, nonchalantly accrediting her dexterity to eight years of gymnastics. Not to mention their impromptu trek into the Beacon Hills Preserve a few days ago, where Allison demonstrated some inexplicably impressive archery skills, then took off into the woods leaving Lydia alone for nearly twenty minutes. Although Lydia thought she was entitled to an explanation, Allison continued to be uncharacteristically vague. Perhaps even more worrying, since that afternoon, she had been increasingly distant too. It wasn't like her. Not at all. Lydia couldn't help but be annoyed that her closest friend – the same person who was always telling her that _she_ should be more open, had turned the tables on her. Now, Allison was the one holding back, and Lydia was scrambling to make sense of it all.

Normally, Lydia would have cut her losses, written off the last four months as another in a long line of disappointing, short-lived friendships. But Allison was different. She was the best friend Lydia had ever had, and she didn't want to lose her. Not over a _stupid_ impulsive indiscretion. Not because of a toxic combination of conjecture and half-truths. Not for anything. Whatever was going wrong between them, she wanted to put a stop to it, fix what was broken, and go back to the way things were. She knew they could...if Allison would just talk to her.

As they walked through the shoe department, she remembers observing Allison. The dimples that framed her mouth when she smiled were nowhere to be seen. In her slouched posture, Lydia recognized the cumbersome weight of pretending. She knew that burden all too well. Then, there were Allison's eyes. They told a corroborating story, conveying sadness and uncertainty – a reflection of the emotions Lydia so often saw when she looked at herself in the mirror. She remembers thinking that maybe she and Allison had even more in common than she already knew.

"What's wrong?" she asked for the second time as they stepped onto the escalator.

"I told you, nothing's wrong," Allison denied again. "I just... I have a lot on my mind."

 _Fine._ If Allison wasn't ready to confide in her, then Lydia wasn't going to beg. Instead, she reflexively opted for needling her about her sullen mood. Maybe it would lighten things up a bit.

"You could smile at least," Lydia snipped. "Ever heard of the saying... _Never frown. Someone could be falling in love with your smile_?" She practically gagged on the artificially saccharine flavor of her tone, but when Allison responded with a faint chuckle, Lydia went on, nudging her friend with the jacket she was carrying and instructing, "Smile, Allison. I'm buying you a dress."

The tactic worked.

Allison softened, nodding as she commented, "Have to admit as far as apologies go, that's more than I expected."

"Excellent," she replied, looking away to hide the mixture of relief and offense the backhanded compliment had spurred.

"But not as much as I'm going to ask," Allison casually tacked on.

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means..." Allison began as they neared the second floor, "you're going to cancel on whatever dumb, roided-up jock you said yes to...and you're going to go with somebody else."

Lydia shot her a sideways glance. "Who?"

Allison's dimples suddenly decided to make an appearance as she specified, "Him," while redirecting her stare towards the perfume counter.

Lydia followed her gaze until she saw...

 _Stiles?_

Muted by surprise, Lydia blinked, taking in the image of this lanky figure in blue plaid. She watched with bewilderment as he sprayed one of the testers into the air before spastically sneezing into his elbow, once... _twice._

"Aww... Don't frown, Lydia. Someone could be falling in love with your smile," Allison sarcastically parroted.

Lydia returned her attention to her friend, their eyes legitimately locking for the first time that night.

Allison shrugged, triumphant smile reshaping her expression.

The thing was...Lydia wasn't frowning. When Stiles self-consciously waved as he leaned on the glass display counter, Lydia wasn't annoyed or disappointed. She was... Well, she didn't know what she was. Curious...maybe, but there was also something about that moment that made her body involuntarily tremble. If she didn't know better, she would attribute it to nervousness – which was absurd because Lydia Martin did _not_ get nervous in the presence of boys. At least she never used to...

"So, what do you say?" Allison prodded. "I mean, it's only one night, and you'd be going strictly as friends...unless you think that might be too uncomfortable for you..."

She remembers the heated irritation that flared in her chest. Evidently, Allison thought she had the upper hand in this situation.

Just because, on _one_ occasion, she caught Lydia looking at Stiles for more than half a second – okay, maybe it was longer than that, like thirty seconds...or a minute...definitely not much more than two or three minutes, tops.

Whatever, just because Allison happened to see Lydia looking at Stiles, she assumed she had the right to an opinion about the two of them – which was ridiculous because there was no "two of them". They were classmates, had some mutual friends and acquaintances. That was all. Maybe they could possibly be on the verge of becoming friends...someday, if they actually spent any time together. But they hadn't. So, there was no need to make a fuss over an innocent glance or two from across the hallway. _Was there?_

It's not like she was staring at him – not like _that._ She was just trying to figure something out. Anyway, Stiles looked at her _first._

But since that day, Allison had been dropping these not-so-subtle hints, suggesting that Lydia should get to know Stiles better and generally singing his praises – how sweet and funny he was, what a good friend he was to Scott and to her. It wasn't like any of it was a revelation. Of course, Lydia had noticed those things. Despite what people thought, she wasn't oblivious.

So, whether this little arrangement for the formal was Allison's idea of influencing her in a specific direction...or if it was simply meant to knock her off balance, Lydia was determined not to let it – or at least not to let it show.

"Why would it be?" she rebounded, placing one hand on her hip and tilting up her head with contrived confidence.

"No reason..." Allison smirked. "Anyway, great. It's settled then."

Lydia remembers another current of nerves that struck when Allison called Stiles over.

He greeted Allison, then turned to her, offering a _Hey, Lydia..._ in _that way_ he did – a way that made her name sound lyrical and much prettier than when other people said it.

She remembers how the upsurge modified, dispersing into delicate warm flutters below her rib cage. The sensation made her feel dazed and more alert at the same time.

"Stiles," she acknowledged him with a disproportionate amount of composure.

Before she had a chance to utter another syllable, Allison interjected, "Well, I'm going to start looking for my dress."

Lydia tensed. It seemed Allison couldn't get away fast enough.

Plastering on a smile, Lydia grasped her forearm, palm clapping against the green leather of her jacket. "But Allisonnn, don't you want to go together? That was the whole point of coming here."

From the corner of her eye, she could see Stiles patiently standing by, expression shifting ever so slightly...as if he were privy to her subliminal plea: _Do not leave me again._

But Allison seemed purposefully unaffected. "Yeah, I know, but on second thought... It's probably best if we split up. We'll cover more ground that way. Don't you agree?"

The way her pitch spiked at the end made it feel more like a challenge...and Lydia was not about to shy away from a challenge.

"Of course," she gritted through her tight-lipped smile, uncuffing Allison's arm. A temporary ceasefire was probably the most logical strategy anyway. She would deal with her so-called friend's thinly veiled attempt to meddle in her social life later.

"Good. Catch up with you in a bit... You two have fun."

As Lydia watched Allison disappear into a sea of satin, chiffon, and sequins, she heard Stiles ask, "So, uh...how are you?"

She faced him, inhaling to alleviate her frustration as she replied, "Fine. Just fine... You?"

"Okay. Fine. Good." He vigorously nodded, mouth twitching into an upside-down smile.

An uneasy silence followed, and Lydia took it as her cue to make an exit.

"Well, I guess I should start looking for a dress too," she remarked, restlessly fiddling with her jacket, then draping it over her purse.

She was about to back away, but Stiles extended his arm towards her, not touching...just reaching.

"Lydia, wait. I..." he trailed off, eyes scanning the space as he gnawed on his bottom lip.

They were standing in the middle of the store, whirl of activity buzzing around them; staff members wheeling garment racks loaded with inventory, shoppers passing on either side to board the escalator.

He very gently tapped her upper arm, but the pads of his fingertips blazed against her skin, nearly making her flinch. "Here..." he led, palm ghosting behind her shoulder as he guided her to an empty nook between the perfume counter and a mirrored support column. "I uh... I wanted to..." he stumbled, scratching at his jaw while he spoke, then abruptly stopping and shoving his hand into his pocket.

Ordinarily, when boys approached her with such hesitancy, Lydia would feel compelled to roll her eyes. But there was nothing ordinary about Stiles. Seeing him like that gave her pause. He looked about as nervous as _she_ felt, and it made her want to reach back for him. She just wasn't sure of how to do that.

The next thing she remembers, she was stepping closer. It was as if some dormant instinct had awakened inside of her, softness of her own voice astonishing her when she questioned, "Stiles, what is it?"

She could almost feel the pulse of his movements as he gestured between them with the hand that wasn't lodged in his pocket.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is... I mean, I know Allison already talked to you, but I want to do this right. I still want to ask."

That wasn't at all what she expected.

"Oh," she breathed, then pursed her lips to keep them from quivering.

Stiles stood several inches taller than her, and she gazed up at him, awestruck and profoundly touched that this boy she hardly allowed herself to know was treating her with such decency and respect. She blinked, bright lights gleaming in her eyes and a giant red star that suspended above their heads flickering in and out of view. She remembers being swept up in the moment; Stiles, with his sweet shyness and thoughtful consideration, had magically transformed a mainstream department store into something beautiful.

Lydia was at a loss for words, so she gave him what she hoped would be an encouraging smile.

He huffed out a shaky exhale. After briefly closing his eyes, his lids lifted, rows of dark lashes framing a pair of striking brown irises which were aimed at her with the kind of intensity she could hardly believe was real.

But it was.

It was real when he quietly asked, "Lydia, will you go to the formal...with me?" in a tone so unassuming, so tender, so like she always dreamed of...but never thought she would hear.

It was real when, for the first time in her life, an answer formed in her heart rather than her head. All she could focus on was the virtue of his stare, and it did something to her. _Inside._ It made her _feel_ like what she wanted was important to him – and what she _wanted_ was to say...

"Yes."

The word rose in a whisper, and Stiles hedged closer, trace of a smile traversing his lips.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she repeated, that time with more conviction.

And she _was_ sure. In fact, her body accepted that certainty more readily than her mind, because without thinking, her hand connected with his, knuckles grazing before her index and middle fingers curled around his pinky. His lips parted and brows elevated, just a smidge, but then he completely enveloped the rest of her digits and squeezed back.

"Wow," he sighed, blushing as he glanced down at their hands. "I mean great. That's really great."

The earnest emotion he radiated was beguiling, and the warmth of his hand, so freely given, seemed to be travelling under her skin. It was captivating...how easily he affected her, but also incredibly intimidating. She needed to slow down.

As if Stiles could sense that, he loosened his grip.

"I better start looking...for a dress," she reiterated, reversing one pace and letting her hand fall slowly away from his.

What Lydia never anticipated was that her fingers would feel so exposed without his surrounding them. She remembers that while she was trying to formulate a rational explanation for that, Stiles surprised her again.

"Want me to come with?"

His offer broke through the residual tension in her body, and she couldn't suppress a laugh.

"You want to come dress shopping with me?"

"I prefer to call it keeping you company while _you_ shop for a dress," he revised, "but yeah... Why not?"

She couldn't think of a valid cause to refuse him.

"Alright, but I'm warning you – this could take a while..."

* * *

An hour later, Lydia was still maneuvering through rows of dresses in every color, material, and silhouette. Stiles was trailing behind her...lower half of his face concealed by a mountain of fabric. Clearly, he had gotten more than he bargained for when he insisted on carrying everything for her. It was kind of cute though, the way he persisted.

"You really weren't kidding, were you?" came the muffled sound of his voice.

"About what?"

Elevating his chin, he blew a ruffled bit of tulle away from his mouth, then peered at her over the bundle in his arms. "About this taking a while."

"Nope. Is that a problem?"

"Nah... It's just these are all starting to look the same to me and—"

Lydia halted in her tracks, and Stiles nearly crashed into her. As she confronted him, he was struggling to balance the slippery heap of garments.

He had a point; every one of the dresses was tinted to some neutral hue of ivory or off-white. So what if they were? Maybe she was being more particular than usual, but this dress was important to her. She wanted it to be perfect. As a bonus, the longer she was at the mall, the less time she would have to spend at home. It was the second Tuesday of the month, which meant it was her father's duly appointed night to forget to call her. That aside, she wasn't exactly having a terrible time with Stiles either. True, he had hardly stopped talking since the initial awkward silence passed, but it's not like he was boring. She was even more keenly aware of that when he mentioned that one of the displays reminded him of the aurora borealis. She thought so too. Better yet, Stiles was as enchanted by the northern lights as she was. It was energizing to have an actual conversation with a boy for a change. She was _so tired_ of pretending to be riveted by inane chatter with dimwitted boys who showed zero interest in anything other than sporting events or the anatomy of cars.

Suddenly, it occurred to her – maybe Stiles was bored with _her._ Maybe she was so accustomed to mindless prattle that she was failing to hold up her end of the conversation. Maybe she had feigned superficiality and ignorance so convincingly, that it was all he could see.

"And what?" she asked cautiously.

"And...I'm sure any one of them will look amazing on you."

Lydia remembers diligently scrutinizing his expression, trying to discern if he were feeding her a line so she would just pick a dress. But in his soulful eyes and timid smile, all she could see was sincerity.

She remembers thinking she shouldn't have been so relieved. _They're just words._ _He'll tire of you, like everyone else,_ she chided herself.

Except _the way_ Stiles said those words made them feel like _more,_ and her cynical thoughts only managed to delay the irrepressible smile from spreading across her mouth.

"Just keep moving, Stilinski," she feebly deflected.

But neither of them moved at all. They seemed to be locked in a staring contest, both of them still smiling when Allison crossed into Lydia's peripheral vision. Allison, who was blatantly eavesdropping while pretending to be admiring a mint green, sequined mini dress. The cut was completely unsuitable for her figure. Lydia narrowed her eyes disapprovingly, and Allison immediately returned the dress to the rack, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. It was annoying, but at least Lydia knew her opinion still counted for something. That was reassuring. On the other hand, the fact that Allison would probably never let Lydia forget whatever _she thought_ she had just witnessed – that was far less reassuring.

"Didn't you say to keep moving?" Stiles nudged, playfully bumping her arm with his elbow.

"Something caught my eye."

"What?"

"This..." she fibbed, grabbing the nearest hanger and coming up with a strapless dress.

By a stroke of luck, it happened to be her size. It was quite pretty too; cream satin with a ruched bodice and black sash. She could feel Stiles watching her as she ran her hand over the fascinator that adorned one side. When Lydia found herself wondering how he would think she looked in the dress, she quickly whipped around and strolled towards the end of the aisle. After comparing it to a white and ice blue design she had spotted earlier, she chose the cream one, tossed it to the top of the mound Stiles was carrying, and kept going.

"Oh, okay, so...are you just gonna...try these on right now? All of them? I... Is this a twenty-four-hour Macy's?" he whimpered.

"Are those rhetorical questions?" she bantered, glancing over her shoulder as she led the way to the dressing rooms.

"Never mind... I'll take that as a _yes_ to all three."

Once they entered, Lydia relieved Stiles of the dresses, taking them from him one by one and hanging them in the order she planned to try them on. When he passed her jacket to her but lingered in the doorway, she diverted her eyes to the waiting area.

He stayed where he was...as if he intended to stand guard outside the compartment.

Impatiently crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. "The chairs are over there."

She remembers the way his face instantly contorted with panic and how his hands motioned wildly as he corrected, "Wait... I wasn't—I wouldn't..."

Lydia inadequately battled against the laughter that was tickling the base of her ribs until Stiles comprehended that she was teasing him.

"Right. Okay... I'm gonna go sit...over there..." he grimaced, pointing to the row of wooden chairs with both index fingers, "where things are less...hostile."

But he was grinning when he looked back at her a few seconds later.

Yet again, she gave into the smile he inspired. Then, she shrugged one shoulder, spun on her heels, and drew the curtain closed with a dramatic swish.

She remembers the resonance of his sigh. It seemed to take on a physical presence in the space. She could almost see it – a shimmering configuration of color floating above her...like the northern lights.

Putting her shoulder bag aside, Lydia sank onto the bench that was stationed opposite the full-length mirrors. As she stared ahead, she hardly recognized her own image; eyes dewy bright and green of her irises more vividly saturated, cheeks warmed a shade deeper than her new blush and coral tinted lips that refused to settle down. She couldn't explain what came over her when Stiles was around, what it was about him that made her so...careless.

In the short time they had spent together...talking...and laughing...and ping-ponging sarcastic remarks off each other, Lydia was more herself than she could ever remember allowing herself to be. It was mind-boggling...and risky...and she didn't know what to do about it.

Exhaling the breath she was inadvertently holding, Lydia shook her head and stood up. It was already after eight o'clock, and she had a lineup of dresses to try on. It wasn't the right time to contemplate any of this.

 _Stiles is just a boy_ , she told herself.

Except he wasn't, and she knew it. Somewhere deep inside, she felt it too. She was becoming more aware of that every day.

He wasn't just smarter than other boys but also far more direct, and considerate, and witty, and _so very_ sweet. He was the kind of sweet she wasn't even sure existed apart from a book or a movie. But it did, and the way he had asked her to the Winter Formal was proof of that. He was the kind of sweet she never thought she would be impressed by in real life. But she was, and it made her feel...things she never felt before.

As she changed from one dress to the next, Lydia remembers that her thoughts remained preoccupied with Stiles.

She couldn't help it.

Every so often, he would call to her from the other side of the wall: a random question here, a rambling thought there. Either that, or he would be tapping his foot to some vaguely familiar beat which her brain would automatically seek to identify – out of habit, of course. Not because she was trying to figure out what types of music he liked.

It was no better when he was quiet because _then_ Lydia would start wondering what he was thinking about, if he was losing his patience with her, if he was wishing he were somewhere else. It was driving her to distraction. How the hell was she supposed to stop thinking about Stiles when even in silence he was so...so... _present?_

Lydia was so submersed in thought that, out of eight dresses, she only remembers the cream one with the black sash – how well it fit, the smoothness of the satin against her fingertips, the feathered fascinator tickling the crook of her elbow...and the way Stiles had been smiling at her when she blindly snatched it from the metal stand. She didn't even bother with the last two dresses. Instead, she carefully released the zipper, wriggled out of the dress, and returned it to the hanger.

While she was getting back into her own clothes, an announcement echoed through the loudspeakers.

"ATTENTION SHOPPERS... TO THE OWNER OF A BLUE MAZDA..."

 _Allison drives a blue Mazda._

"LICENSE PLATE 5UNI...768..."

 _Is that hers? What about it?_

"YOUR CAR IS BEING TOWED."

 _Seriously!_

Without thinking, Lydia burst from behind the curtain.

Stiles sprang from his seat. "Lydia?"

She ignored the way he was gaping at her, still buttoning her olive-green dress. "Did you hear that?"

He averted his eyes. "You mean the announcement?"

She flapped her hand in exasperation. _"Yes, the announcement_...about the blue Mazda?"

"Yeah, uh...license plate 5UNI768. It's being—"

"Towed."

"Uh-huh," he confirmed. He observed her for a second, then continued, "Allison has a blue Mazda.. _._ Was that—Is that hers?"

As she answered with an incredulous edge, _"I don't know._ I haven't gotten around to memorizing her plate number," Lydia heard her phone buzz with a text.

She remembers darting back into the cubicle and rummaging through her bag for the device.

Sure enough, there was a new message from Allison: _Have to go. Car being towed!_

Her entire body deflated; vexation mutating into...hurt as she stared down at the block letters and double exclamation points. How was she supposed to get home?

When she eventually looked up, Stiles was standing behind her, his reflection attentively regarding hers in the mirror.

"I take it that was Allison..." he commented softly.

"Yeah." Her eyes began to sting, and she remembers hating the timbre of her voice when she squeaked, "She left." It sounded so desperate and vulnerable, but that was precisely how she felt.

"Oh...sorry." After a brief pause, he volunteered, "I can take you home."

Was that pity? She didn't need or want that – from anyone.

"It's out of your way. I'll just call...my mom," she said flatly, jabbing at the keys on her phone while her vision blurred.

No sooner had she pronounced the words than she regretted them. Lydia didn't know where her mother was or whether she would be able to pick her up.

Before she could fret over how to backpedal, Stiles coaxed, "Lydia, my Jeep is right in the parking garage. Let me take you home."

She turned around, daring to look him in the eyes, and what she saw up close wasn't pity at all. It looked much more like care and compassion.

"It's no trouble, really," he contended.

"Are you sure?"

He stepped closer. Just one step. Just enough to stir the warm flutter behind her ribs.

She could feel him reaching for her again, knuckles grazing hers as he answered, "Yes."

"Okay," she nodded, putting her phone away.

Then, she picked up her belt and secured it around her waist. She was about to get her jacket next, but Stiles already had it in hand.

"Here..." he whispered, low hum of his tone attracting her attention.

She remembers him – holding her jacket open for her, not imposing, simply inviting her nearer.

One side of her mouth hitched upwards with gratitude. As she slipped her arms into the sleeves, she had a fleeting thought of Jackson. _He never did this for me. Not even once._

Untucking her hair from the collar, Lydia turned to Stiles, made eye contact when she told him, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," his cute, lopsided grin answered.

She looked at him for a moment before grabbing her shoulder bag and starting towards the doorway.

"Hey, what about your dress? Did you decide?"

Maybe it was silly, but she didn't want Stiles to know which one it was...not until the night of the formal.

"Yeah... I'll just come back and get it tomorrow or something."

"What if someone else buys it?"

He was right. She would kick herself if she missed out on that dress.

"I can wait...somewhere else...if you don't want me to see it," he insightfully suggested.

"You don't mind?"

"No, not at all," he assured her. "I'll meet you by the escalators."

"Alright. I'll try not to be too long."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugged.

And when he added, "I'll wait for you...as long as you need," it felt like he was saying so much more.

She watched him exit the room, then picked up her dress and set off for the closest register.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, Lydia's dress was paid for and zipped into a garment bag. She found Stiles, right where he said he would be.

"We need to go up. I'm parked on level three," he informed her, taking the dress from her arms.

As they ascended on the escalator, side by side, Lydia regarded Stiles; angles of his cheekbones, sweep of his nose, slightly fuller bottom lip that made it seem like he was always on the verge of a pout, and a grouping of three moles that aligned on his left cheek like the belt in the constellation Orion. She had never noticed that before, but she liked it. Maybe because even during the longest, coldest nights of autumn and winter, whenever she looked at the sky from her bedroom window, Lydia could always find Orion, and that made her feel safe.

By the time they got to the Jeep, she realized – Stiles made her feel safe too.

He walked beside her, hand occasionally hovering at her shoulder blade – so warm, even without touching, that she could sense it through her jacket. He escorted her past clusters of people and held every door for her. He even waited by the passenger's side until she was buckled, then meticulously spread her dress over the back seat, so it wouldn't wrinkle. As he put on a hoodie, strode around the truck, and gracefully landed behind the steering wheel, Lydia remembers wondering how it was possible that _both_ this confident young man _and_ the spastic boy at the perfume counter could reside within the same person. It was more than a little puzzling but also quite endearing.

She remembers the Jeep, ruggedness she is now well acquainted with, completely unknown to her at the time – the creak of the doors, the scent of the aged leather upholstery, the story behind each scratch and dent. She has come to love it; all those things deemed sacred, beholden as part of its charm, an extension of Claudia, Noah, and Stiles – her family. But that night, when the engine roared to a start beneath her for the first time...like a living, breathing entity, it made her jump.

"Sorry, I know it's loud," Stiles apologized. "It'll quiet down once it heats up." He zippered his light grey hoodie, then blew into his hands and rubbed them together. "It's a lot cooler than it was before. Are you warm enough?" he checked as he cranked the dial and aimed the vents at her.

"Yeah," she told him.

She wasn't really...but she was getting there.

He flicked on the headlights, idled for a minute, then reversed out of the parking spot. As he hooked left onto the main road, Lydia saw an eerie red gleam in the darkness. Cold fear sought to steal the warmth that was gradually seeping into her skin, but she convinced herself that what she saw was merely the flash of brake lights from another vehicle and focused on Stiles instead.

It worked...up until they drove past Allison's block. Then, Lydia began to contemplate all the uncertainties that had been weighing on her over the course of the day. She was so immersed in thought that she didn't even notice they were in front of her house until Stiles rolled into the driveway and cut the engine; sudden silence rather than noise causing her to startle that time.

She remembers the urgent need to get away, to conceal the unrest that was brewing inside of her, threatening to expose her insecurities.

"Lydia, are you okay?"

"Why do you ask?" she replied a little too swiftly to sound natural.

"Well...you seem..." he trailed off as she wrestled with the uncooperative latch on her seat belt. "Hang on, it sticks sometimes... You just have to hold the button and push down before you pull back." His fingers shaped around hers to demonstrate, effortlessly unfastening the buckle.

Eyes wide and fixed on their hands, she wondered if he had any idea how gentle he was.

Was it just his nature...or did he _intend_ to be so careful with her? Could he see the most fragile, broken parts of her – the ones that ached for tenderness? How could he when they were buried so deep that even she had lost sight of them? That is...until her hand instinctively reached for his in a crowded department store under bright lights and a giant red star.

Lydia remembers wondering what it felt like _to him._ Did he tremble because her skin was cold and lifeless – like she so often felt inside...or had he sensed some ember of warmth that was bonded to an actual human soul?

She swallowed thickly. "You were saying..."

"Just...you seem kind of distracted since we left the mall," he resumed.

"I was...thinking...about the dance."

It wasn't a complete fabrication. Although she had spent a portion of the drive tussling with thoughts of the red eyes, the secrets her best friend was keeping from her, and whether or not those things might be connected, she had also been speculating about the Winter Formal – what it would be like to see Jackson there _with Allison_ , if the whole night would be tainted by unresolved tension, and most of all...how long she would be able to keep her guard up with Stiles.

If the present were any indication, she feared it wouldn't be for very long. She was already getting another wave of nervous flutters as she considered what it might be like to dance with him, how his arms would fit around her, what it would feel like to be _that close_ to someone who was so different from what she was used to...

Lydia remembers realizing that their hands were still touching, and she slid hers away – a reflex.

Stiles ducked his head. "Oh... I get it."

"You do?"

"Yeah, and listen...I was really looking forward to going with you, but...if you changed your mind..."

"What?"

"About me...being your date," he clarified.

 _No,_ she hadn't changed her mind, and she remembers being utterly perplexed that Stiles had jumped to that conclusion.

"I said yes – twice. Didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did." He puffed out his cheeks, extinguished a slow breath, then finally met her baffled gaze. "But...maybe I asked the wrong question."

"What do you mean?"

"I asked if you would go...but I should have asked if you _want_ to go with me."

"Stiles—"

"It's alright you know..." he conceded before twisting in his seat, left elbow leaning on the steering wheel, right hand settling at the base of her headrest. "You don't have to. I never want you to do anything you don't want to do...anything you don't feel comfortable with."

But she _did_ want to go with him. Unexpected as it was, once Lydia said yes, she was sure.

"Stiles, it's not that."

"It isn't?"

"No. I want to go with you. I do."

"You do?"

"Yes," she admitted for the third time.

"Why?"

The sheer vulnerability he expressed was chipping at the sheet of ice that normally kept her at a safe distance from people, especially boys. She remembers thinking that if he could be so open, maybe she could too – just this once.

So even though it scared her, she told him the truth. "Because...you cared enough to ask me, and because...I want to get to know you better."

"Oh," he exhaled, half-grin quickly emerging and diminishing. "But then...what's bothering you?"

She pursed her lips, fear threatening to silence her with another forbidding chill.

"Lydia, you can talk to me."

His voice was steadily soft and encouraging. She remembers it so clearly.

"Do you ever... Do you ever get the feeling that there's...something important going on – like…there's this big secret, that everyone else seems to know, but you aren't a part of it?"

He tilted his head to one side, understanding plumping his pout. "Yeah. Yeah, sure."

"What do you do about it?"

"I usually snoop around until I figure out what it is."

Quirking her mouth, she countered, "And if you can't?"

"Then I guess..." He sucked in his lip and released it. "I'd have to believe there's a good reason for me not to know yet."

"Like what?"

"Like maybe...if there is some kind of secret, the people involved also know that it's not so easy to live with...and maybe they want to protect me."

"And you just accept that?"

"No, not a chance. But as a rule, I don't always do what's best for me," he unapologetically asserted.

She laughed, inaudible save for the gust of breath rushing from her lungs, making her shoulders shake.

"Is that... Is that a smile?"

"Stiles..." She rolled her eyes, but her smile only thrived on the satisfaction he appeared to get from seeing it.

"Yeah, that's definitely a smile."

Lydia remembers the vibrations of his thumb as he tapped on the side of her headrest, rapid – like her heartbeat.

"Does that mean you feel a little better?"

"Maybe."

"Good."

Her stomach swirled at how much that seemed to matter to him. She couldn't fathom why he cared so much, but it felt _really nice,_ nonetheless.

"It's getting late. I better go in," she poorly transitioned – another reflex. It wasn't enough to douse the hope that he would walk her to the door though. Obviously, she wasn't going to ask, but she _hoped._

As if by some unspoken means of communication, Stiles understood. He hopped out of the Jeep and took her dress from the back. Lydia smiled to herself and was halfway out of her seat when he came around to offer his hand. She looked down, distance between the Jeep's side step and the ground greater than she was comfortable with...especially when she was wearing four-inch platform heels. She accepted his help, her hand clasping his, one foot cautiously finding the pavement, then the other.

She remembers clutching the strap of her handbag as they followed the sloped path that led to the porch. Together, they climbed the stone stairs, then Lydia unlocked the door and turned to face Stiles.

"So...see you at school tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah. Thanks again – for driving me home and...for what you said."

"Anytime, Lydia," he replied softly.

That night, the solstice sky was full of stars but in that moment, all she could focus on were the ones on his cheek. She remembers the way their fingers brushed as he handed her the dress, warmth from the glimmer of contact between them, keeping out the cold.

She remembers hesitating... not quite ready to say good night.

"Stiles..."

"Yeah?"

"You should meet me by my locker before class...so we can make plans for the formal."

"Really?"

"Well, unless you plan on doing it telepathically..." she kidded.

He smiled – a full smile, one that graced his countenance with something she thought looked a lot like hope.

She remembers how good it felt to know she had put it there, and she remembers feeling the corners of her mouth curl up in response.

Apparently, his smiles were contagious.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia is looking at Stiles, and he is leaning against the perfume counter, looking back at her. He gives her a smile and a wave. The gesture is smoother, more confident than it was on the night in her memory...but his cheeks are still tinted pink, and she catches a glimpse of the lanky boy in plaid who asked her to the Winter Formal. She loves him...every version of him. Always will.

Smiling, she strides the last few paces from the escalator, closes the distance between them. His arms are wide open for her, so she dives right in, hugs him _tight._

"Mmm... Hi," he greets her, arms looping all the way around her small frame, lips finding her temple and dotting it with kisses.

"Hi," she contentedly sighs, smoothing her palms up and down his back.

"We're both here early."

She presses her cheek to his shoulder, heat of him passing through his brown tee shirt, then tucks her nose into his neck so she can breathe him in. "Yeah, we are."

"Does that mean you missed me as much as I missed you?"

"Definitely."

His chest rises with a breath as he squeezes her. "Good, 'cause I was literally counting the minutes...seconds...milliseconds..."

"Me too," she confesses over the flutter of happiness she feels.

When she lifts her head to gaze at Stiles, Lydia gets an extra burst of euphoria because she is also met with the gleam of bright lights and the flicker of a giant red star overhead. All of it as beautiful as it ever was, except now she is in _his_ _arms_ with their heart pendants perfectly balanced between them, beats thumping on either side, tug still present but soothed by proximity – everything just as it should be.

"Stiles..." she whispers with sparkling mist in her eyes, "this is where you asked me to the Winter Formal. Remember?"

"Yeah, Lyds. I remember." He affectionately bumps her nose with his. "It's also where you said yes – twice."

"I had to. You were so sweet, and my heart wouldn't let me say anything else."

"What would you say now, if I asked you out?"

"I'd say yes again...but I'd much rather go home with you."

"Yeah?" He caresses her face, touch so mild and so full of love. "Well, that works for me...because I was thinking the same."

When he steps back, he is smirking as his hands settle into the curves of her waist and his eyes take her in.

"What?"

"I just realized... You didn't buy anything."

"Neither did you," she points out.

"No, I didn't."

Elevating to the tips of her toes, she concludes, "That must mean...we already have everything we need."

"We sure do, angel," he agrees, gifting her with a delicate kiss and bringing her into one more ardent embrace.

They linger for a moment, then walk hand in hand to the parking garage and climb into the Jeep.

Stiles drives Lydia home where they leave their wet shoes in the hallway and snuggle up together on his bed. It's peaceful and miraculously mundane. They are sharing a pillow and their fingers are linked over his heart, only the pitter-patter of raindrops to note the passage of time and the promise of their love, as always, keeping out the cold.


	28. Meant To Be

Here is where you kissed me first; it carries the flavor your lips left behind.  
-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

Lydia breaks to an abrupt stop outside the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic. It's after hours on a Saturday, but she knows Scott is there to monitor pets that are boarded for the weekend. She cuts the engine, bolts out of her blue sedan, and pulls the rear door open, then cautiously reaches to scoop a listless Prada from the back seat. Even though it's a hot summer day, and even though the pup is swaddled in her yellow blanket, she quakes in Lydia's arms. The vibrations of her tiny body seem to move through Lydia, spreading fear and worry like charges of static electricity.

Attempting to soothe them both, she whispers, "It's okay, sweet pea. It's okay... I've got you," but the Papillon's uncharacteristically drooped ear indicates further cause for alarm, and Lydia's tone cracks with anxiety.

She nudges the car door shut with her hip and rushes towards the clinic, cradling Prada close to her chest.

Once inside, she calls out, "Scott... Scott!"

She hears something drop. Nothing breakable – an empty box maybe...

Then someone else's noticeably concerned voice answers first.

"Lydia? Lydia!"

 _Stiles._

The next thing she knows, he is bursting through the supply room doors, arms already outstretched for her, and Scott isn't far behind.

"What is it? What happened?" the boys say in canon as they round on both sides of her.

Stiles's palms land on her shoulders, fingers grasping tightly. She looks up at him, two pairs of worried eyes colliding.

"I—I don't know," she stammers. "She won't stand up, and she keeps shivering."

"Scott?" Stiles turns to their friend for guidance.

He puts one hand to his temple and takes a breath. "Uh...Deaton's still in surgery." Glancing at his watch he informs them, "But he should be out in...fifteen minutes or so. Are you okay with me checking her vitals?"

Lydia nods fervently. "Yes."

"Good. Let's go to room two," he directs, leading her forward.

Stiles shadows her steps, hands trading places on her shoulders as he moves behind her.

In the room, Scott flicks on the lights, and Lydia carefully lays Prada on the table. The metal is cold, and she is grateful to have had the presence of mind to bring the pup's favorite blanket. Actually, it's not a blanket. It's one of Lydia's old cardigans, but it's been Prada's ever since the day she took her home.

As Scott begins to examine Prada, Lydia feels Stiles slide closer. She leans into him, drawing comfort from the proximity.

"Her breathing is a bit slow," Scott notes as he pets Prada, "but it's stable, and her heart sounds strong. That's good. It means she's not in any respiratory or cardiac distress."

Lydia tries to swallow the dry lump in her throat as Scott takes a thermometer from one of the drawers, gently lifts Prada's ear, and inserts it.

The toy Spaniel stays amenably still.

"Good girl, Prada," he compliments, fingers lightly skimming her head.

Seconds later, Scott has a reading. "Hundred and three point four. That's a little high. It should normally be around a hundred and one." Setting the thermometer aside, he continues, "I need to look her over, see where she's hurting."

"Okay," Lydia says, helping to unravel the blanket and spread it on the table. Then, she watches as her friend protectively supports Prada while his hands work to palpate specific areas.

"Her throat feels fine... Legs and ribs too..."

He proceeds to her back. Also, fine. But his eyes narrow as his hands move down her body, and Lydia's uneasiness surges.

"What?" Stiles asks before the word even forms in her mouth.

"She's pretty sensitive in her lower abdomen, so she's definitely hurting there."

As Scott is speaking, Prada suddenly stops shaking. By the darkening hue of his veins and the way his jaw clenches, Lydia instantly recognizes that he is siphoning her pain.

"Scott—"

"It's fine, really. The more relaxed she is, the better."

She curls her hand around his forearm. "Thank you."

He gives her a don't-mention-it smile and trades a nod with Stiles who is patting his shoulder.

"What next?" Lydia questions.

"I'm gonna weigh her, make sure she didn't lose any weight since her last visit. In the meantime, tell me everything – anything she did that was out of the ordinary...if she ate something...or went somewhere new...been near any other dogs..."

"Um...nothing like that," she recalls, as Scott lifts Prada and puts her on the scale. "Stiles and I were out yesterday afternoon, but she was in the house with my mom most of the day. She seemed fine last night..." Looking at Stiles, she checks, "Right?"

He stops nibbling on his thumbnail to answer, "Yeah...yeah. She ate and drank. She was even playing until she tired herself out."

His opposite arm is encircling Lydia's waist. As he tightens it around her, she gets a flash of the three of them snuggled up on the living room sofa; Lydia and Stiles conversing in hushed tones, Prada nestled between them, paws intermittently twitching and tail occasionally fanning as she dreamt. They stayed like that until Stiles had to leave. Lydia remembers how her heart sank when they reluctantly untangled. She carried Prada with her as she walked him to the door, wanting to keep their little family together for as long as possible. She remembers how Stiles bent down to gingerly kiss Prada's forehead, then hers, softly... _so softly_ that she felt like his lips were dissolving into her skin. He met her gaze for an extended moment, thumb orbiting her chin when he promised to see her the next day. Then, he kissed her – full on the lips, elevating her heart while she savored every blissful second of contact.

 _What if there's something seriously wrong with Prada? What if that was the last time we were all together like that?_ she fears.

But Stiles leads her away from a downward spiral with the steady cadence of his voice. "Lydia? Babe, did you hear what Scott said?"

She can feel the blank expression on her face as she stares at him.

He touches her chin, just like last night, warmth spreading outwards and effortlessly reawakening her. "He said it's a good sign that she was alright yesterday...that means we caught this early."

"Right," she nods as her vision gradually clears.

"When did her behavior change?" Scott asks.

Briefly, Lydia shuts her eyes, then recounts, "Um...I guess it was around ten this morning. She slept later than usual, but she does that sometimes, so I didn't think much of it. The first thing that stood out to me was that when she got up, she didn't drink anything. Usually, she goes right to her water bowl. She was fidgeting a lot too, pacing by the front door, so I took her for a walk. That seemed to calm her...'til noon. Then she started up again. That time, we only got halfway down the block, and she just...collapsed."

"So, she hasn't had anything to drink since last night?"

"No."

After putting Prada back on her blanket, Scott brings up her records on the computer. "Her weight is about the same – only a few ounces less." He inspects the skin behind Prada's neck, then methodically assesses her eyes and her gums. "She's definitely dehydrated. She's small though, so that can happen pretty quickly."

Lydia knows Scott must sense her apprehension because he reaches for her upper arm and adds, "Don't worry. I know how to get an IV started. I'll do that, and then I'll go talk to Deaton."

"Okay," she breathes a little easier.

"You wanna hold her while I get a line going?"

"Yeah, sure."

Her mind veers towards Stiles. He hates needles. She looks over her shoulder, ready to tell him that it's alright if he needs to leave the room. But without a word exchanged, Lydia understands that he isn't going to budge.

His eyes are already fixed on hers, communicating to her in a way that only he can do. And his eyes – those beautiful, loving eyes say, _I'm not leaving you._

Lydia gives him a grateful smile, feels Stiles kiss the top of her head when she leans on his chest. As she keeps Prada still, Scott brings over an IV stand. He checks the bag of fluids before attaching a new needle to the line, then lifts the skin between the pup's shoulder blades and inserts it.

"I'll start her off with fifty mills," he explains as he unlocks the clamp. "She'll get a bump under the skin where the fluids will collect. It'll go down as her body absorbs them."

Once the proper amount has been administered, Scott closes the clamp, removes the needle, and caps it. Even though Lydia is stricken with nerves over Prada's condition, her friend's capabilities are not to be overlooked. Scott is going to be an amazing veterinarian someday.

She thanks him again, and he smiles bashfully.

"I'll be back in a few."

After he exits the room, Lydia restlessly rearranges Prada's blanket, covering her so she won't be cold. She has never been good at waiting, but she is only truly aware of how tense she is when Stiles begins massaging her shoulders.

"How are you holding up?"

"You got here early," she stupidly deflects, immediately confounded by her own response because all she wants to do is bury her nose in his neck and breathe him in until the fear abates.

Fortunately, Stiles isn't the slightest bit discouraged. He knows her better than anyone, after all.

He answers her question, "Yeah, those errands didn't take as long as I thought they would," then compassionately voices her name, "Lydia..." while turning her around to face him.

That's all it takes – the whisper of three syllables, issued from his lips, and the floodgates open.

"I can't lose her," she blurts out.

"You won't. _We_ won't."

"What if it's serious? What if she—"

"Hey, don't go there," he stops her. "We don't know enough yet. It's too big a leap in the wrong direction."

Gripping the sides of his navy-blue tee shirt, she apologizes, "I'm sorry. I know this is hard for you too. I just—"

"Shh... Come here. It's alright."

Stiles brings her into a warm embrace, holds her together, and she wonders how she ever survived without his hugs. She can't help but think about the months when he was gone. All those times Prada ran to the window, chasing the distant rumble of a truck as it wandered down the block. All those mornings she carted around a toy that Lydia couldn't remember buying for her in the first place. All those nights the pup held vigil, staring at the bedroom door...like she knew someone was missing from her life and was patiently awaiting his return.

"I'm so glad you're here," she tells him, bittersweet emotion clinging to her heart.

"Me too, Lyds. Me too."

The waiting feels less oppressive with his perfect arms enveloping her. She can breathe better. She can focus on what matters – their little family, though not in an ideal setting, _still together._

* * *

Minutes later, Scott reenters the room with Deaton.

"Hello Lydia... Stiles," the doctor by day, pack emissary by night greets them, his demeanor ever the epitome of cool and collected.

Sometimes, it's infuriating how composed he is, but right now it reassures her.

"How's my favorite patient?" he inquires as he approaches Prada and scratches her jaw. "Nice and calm I see... It appears that her pain is well under control," he comments, targeting a knowing glance at Scott.

Once he has thoroughly examined Prada, he concludes, "Her hydration is already improving, and from the details Scott has relayed, it's likely she has an infection in her lower abdomen. I'm going to take x-rays, run some tests to rule out any kidney or bladder stones, and we'll go from there."

"Okay," Lydia consents, trepidation creeping back in at the mention of stones. That could mean surgery, and anesthetics are extra tricky when it comes to small dogs.

"You should know, it will take about an hour. I can call you with the results if you need to head home...but you're also more than welcome to stay in the lounge. It'll be far more comfortable than the waiting room."

Stiles is already nodding as his hand glides up and down Lydia's spine.

"We'll stay," she confirms.

Leaving Prada is not even a consideration. She tells her to _be good_ and gives her a kiss. After Stiles does the same, they walk with Scott to the lounge.

"Are you going to assist?" Lydia asks.

"Yeah. I'll come get you as soon as we have the results," he affirms. "We'll take good care of her."

"I know you will."

Scott closes the door behind him, and Lydia and Stiles let out a collective sigh.

"So now...we wait some more," he remarks as they cross the room and plop onto the brown leather couch that sits by the windows.

"I guess so."

"I hate waiting," they say in unison.

It reduces some of their tension, allowing them both the luxury of a smile.

"We should probably do something," Stiles suggests, raising their joined hands and impressing a kiss on the back of Lydia's palm. "It'll keep us from watching the clock."

"You're right. What do you want to do?"

"Well...I always feel better when we talk," he confides, smoothness of his lips undulating against her skin.

"Yeah," she exhales. "Me too."

She gets a partial glimpse of his smile from where it's concealed by her hand and admires the sun rays that are refracting through his irises; light from within him always aspiring to be shared. It's so beautiful, so full of promise, makes her want to wrap herself up in him and never let go.

"Stiles, will you hold me?"

"Of course I will."

They make themselves comfortable; Stiles reclines against the back of the couch, and Lydia lets her hair out of her topknot. When he opens his arms for her, she burrows in deep, feels his body reshape around hers, limbs pushing away the negative space and replacing it with love. For a moment, it feels like they are home, cuddled up in the living room, cozy and content. The only thing missing is a seven-pound Papillon with perky ears and a personality to match.

But when Lydia asks Stiles, "What should we talk about?", he fills that void too.

"How about...the time you told me how you got Prada. Do you remember that day?"

Her smile is budding before the memory even fully resurfaces. "Um...it was...at the beginning of junior year. Wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was."

"One day after school," she elaborates.

"That's right." He nuzzles the side of her face and drops a kiss on her cheek. "Go on, tell me everything..."

"I think it all started because we'd had...a disagreement."

The familiar hum of his laughter vibrates along her ribs.

"What?"

"You were mad at me," he revises. "Remember?"

She does.

 _She remembers the day she told Stiles how Prada came into her life..._

* * *

It was the end of a school day. Yet another miserable day of classes progressing much too slowly and supernatural forces advancing far too quickly.

Lydia had just been in the chemistry lab with Stiles and Deaton. From what they gathered, both Mr. Harris and Mr. Rayne, the music teacher, had been abducted. In the span of fifteen minutes, there were two more names to add to the list of missing persons in Beacon Hills. A list that had been lengthening since the night Lydia found the body of a young lifeguard at the community pool. Even worse, these people weren't just missing – they were taken, apparently with the malicious intention of being sacrificed in some kind of twisted, dark Druid ritual.

Lydia remembers clutching her notebook to her chest as she stood in front of her open locker, pointlessly staring ahead...as if the solutions to her problems were inside.

Once again, she had inadvertently uncovered evidence of a violent attack. Once again, she was too late to prevent it from happening. She remembers wondering if she would ever be able to help someone, to _save_ a life – like Scott or Allison or Stiles had.

Before long, she felt the distinct tenderness of a hand grazing the small of her back as someone moved to stand beside her. She remembers the spark it generated, spreading warmth that looped all the way around to her stomach.

 _Stiles._

The breath that kept getting caught in her throat when he touched her struck for the third time that day, and she closed her eyes. When she reopened them, he was leaning on the locker next to hers, thumbs hooking the straps of his backpack, head tilted to the left as he carefully regarded her.

"Hey," he said softly.

She glanced at him, then deposited her notebook in her locker, fastidiously arranging it amongst the others according to her color-coded system before answering, "Hey."

"You alright?"

"No," she admitted.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asked, sneaking his right hand into the pocket of her red shoulder bag, where she kept a continuous supply of spearmint candies... _for him._

"Also, no," she rebuffed, moving her bag out of range before he could snag one, uncertain of why she was being so discourteous.

Hand dropping to his side, the concern in his expression amplified from mild to significant. "Listen, I wasn't trying to scare you this morning."

She grabbed a few books, roughly shoved them into her bag, and zipped it closed. "I'm not scared."

"Okay..." he hedged, but her denial couldn't have been convincing because he hardly paused before diplomatically seeking to reassure her. "Okay, good...'cause you were right. There's no point in trying to discern a pattern from a single data point. Just because you and Kyle both happen to have a little dog, it doesn't mean you're a possible target too."

 _Little dog._ As in, Prada. As in, the one he said she should get rid of.

Suddenly, the burn she had felt earlier in the day flared, its sting just as fresh.

"Wonderful," she replied curtly, as she shut her locker and spun the dial on the combination lock.

Stiles straightened up, following as she headed down the hallway. "What's wrong then? I mean, I know it's been a long day, but—"

"Didn't you _just_ ask if I wanted to talk about it?" she interrupted.

"Uh...yeah."

"And didn't I say no?"

"Well...yeah, but obviously there's something bothering you...and I'm kinda getting the impression that _something_ is me."

"What would give you that impression?" she sarcastically retorted as they pushed through the doors that led to the terrace.

"I dunno...maybe because you can barely look me in the eye."

She halted in her tracks and turned towards him, deliberately made eye contact to try and disprove his observation.

"Also, you wouldn't let me have a mint," he persisted.

Scrunching her mouth into a pout, she jabbed her heel into the cement and defensively crossed her arms over her chest.

 _"And now_...you're doing that thing where you cross your arms so you can hide the fact that your left hand is balled up into a fist."

As soon as his words reached her ear, Lydia realized that was exactly what she was doing; subconscious force animating her body, revealing her frustration. In response, she promptly unclenched her fist, uncrossed her arms, and resumed walking.

 _Does he have to notice everything?_ she wondered.

But she already had the answer to that question: _Of course he did. He's Stiles._ His extreme awareness of everything and everyone was one of the things she loved most about him. _Loved?_

Stiles easily matched her stride. "Lydiaaa..." he groaned. "Are you mad at me?"

 _Yes._ She was. As silly as that made her feel, _she was._

Because she thought he liked Prada. He had never given her any reason to believe otherwise. It couldn't have been an act. Stiles wasn't like that. What could have changed his mind?

Then again, maybe he hadn't. Maybe she was making a big deal out of nothing. So what if he said something that offended her? There was no point in dwelling on it – especially not when there was so much else going on, things that were far more important than her nicked feelings. Anyway, if she had been able to brush it off once, she could do it again.

She shrugged.

"You are. You're mad at me," he concluded. "What did I do?"

"Never mind. I don't expect you to understand."

 _"But I want to."_

"Stiles, just drop it."

"No," he refused with an indignant air. "No, I can't."

She remembers the way he strode in front of her, firmly bracing his palms on her shoulders to still her.

"That's not how _this_ works, Lydia."

She felt her heart skip as his hand moved to gesture between them, tug behind her ribs seemingly tethered to the motion of his thumb.

"You and me...we're best friends. So when I piss you off, you have to tell me...and vice versa."

 _Best_ friends. He had never used that term before, but he was right. They were.

And best friends were supposed to trust each other. They were always supposed to give each other the benefit of the doubt, which meant...Stiles couldn't have intended to hurt her.

* * *

 **Present Day**

"Okay, I was mad at you..." Lydia concedes, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. "But I couldn't _stay_ mad at you. Not then. Not now either."

"I get that. I can't stay mad at me either."

"Stiles..."

He dips down to kiss her neck until she giggles.

"I'm kidding... I love you too much to ever stay angry with you either."

"I should hope so."

"You _know_ so," he maintains, giving her a squeeze that makes her even more aware of how seamlessly they fit together. "What else do you remember?"

"I remember _you..._ " she pauses to caress the side of his face, "knowing exactly what to say to me – like always."

* * *

Sighing heavily, she yielded. "Look... Don't worry about it. Alright? With everything that's going on...it's not important."

"Don't say that." He stepped closer, voice going velvety soft when he stressed, "Of course it's important. If I said or did something... If I hurt you, I need to know."

She peered around, self-consciously searching for prying eyes and ears. It was one thing to talk about her feelings when it was just the two of them – in the shelter of one of their rooms or the Jeep, or when they were huddled together in their favorite booth at Ned's. But _there_ – at school, with an intrusive stream of classmates rushing by...

 _That_ was completely different and quite frankly...terrifying.

Lydia remembers tensing up, her instinct to resist a show of emotion in such a public space taking hold. She also remembers that Stiles instantly responded to her body language, insightfully interpreting it, as he so often did, and reacting to put her at ease. He took her hand and led her away from the terrace to the place where they often met for lunch on nice weather days; a secluded spot, shaded by maple trees, where patches of azure blue sky peeked through vibrantly transitioning leaves.

Still, she hesitated. What if he thought she was being ridiculous?

"Come on, Lydia... You know I _hate_ when you're mad at me." He tightened his grip on the hand he held and reached for her other one. " _Please,_ just talk to me."

The ache in his pitch was apparent, and she felt every trace of displaced irritation begin to recede. Honestly, even if he hadn't uttered a single word, the way Stiles was looking at her was enough to melt an iceberg. How could she possibly deny him when he was looking at her like _that?_ All cinched brows, piercing eyes, and pouty lips, stance a little hunched...like the mere thought that he had upset her caused him physical pain.

And maybe it did. It wasn't so difficult for Lydia to imagine, seeing as how he had the same effect on her. She remembers that her stomach contorted into a knot at the sight of his discomfort.

It didn't have to stay that way though. She remembers thinking that while she couldn't help Mr. Rayne or Mr. Harris, she could certainly spare Stiles any unnecessary anguish. So, she inhaled a breath, and she talked to Stiles…because he asked her to.

"I... I could never get rid of her."

"What? Who?"

"Prada."

She remembers reflexively squeezing his hands, struggling not to avert her eyes as comprehension took shape on his face.

"Aww...Lydia, I—"

"If you knew what she's been through..."

He momentarily closed his eyes, lips sealing into a frown. When he looked at her again, the remorse he displayed was reinforced by the sincerity of his tone. "Lydia, I am _so_ sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's probably my fault...if I never made it clear how much she means to me."

"No, that's not it," he contended, adamantly shaking his head. "I know you love her. It's obvious whenever I see you with her. I shouldn't have even suggested it...not that way, not even joking." Releasing her left hand, he swiped at the lone tear that had slipped past her lashes, then set his palm on her shoulder. "I _promise,_ I will _never_ say a word against her – ever."

She nodded her thanks.

"I really am sorry."

"I know you are." After briefly glancing at her shoes, black contrasting with the array of colorful leaves below, she asserted, "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It's okay." He ducked down so their eyes were level, fingertips kneading her shoulder blade. "I guess we're bound to do that every now and then. I know you didn't mean it."

"I really didn't," she concurred, digging into the pocket of her bag for a mint – a peace offering.

She remembers the way his fingers curled around hers, securing the candy between their digits before accepting it with a crooked grin.

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

"Yes." She sucked in her top lip. "How about me?"

"Of course. It's forgotten," he assured her, twisting off the wrapper and popping the spearmint drop into his mouth.

She watched him, genuine smile on her face for the first time that day.

And when he said, "Alright, you know what comes next... Bring it in," she didn't resist.

In fact, she remembers diving into his open arms rather eagerly, every cell in her body longing for his embrace.

As they came together, she remembers that Stiles surprised her by not so lightly pressing his lips to her cheek...for the very first time. Her heart steadily throbbed, pounding out emotion she could hardly contain. Lydia remembers riding out the soaring waves it created, letting it all settle into rhythmic ripples as he held her _so close._

He spoke her name after a minute or two; half question, half exhale. She remembers the way her insides swirled at the optimistic inflection.

"Hmm..." she murmured, completely absorbed in the sensation of his chest expanding against hers and the cool essence of spearmint he left on her cheek.

"Do you think Prada will forgive me?"

Lydia grinned into his blue flannel, scent of him staying with her as she lifted her head from his shoulder. "Might be easier if you spend some time with her..."

"Is that an invitation?"

"Maybe."

She remembers how they parted – slowly, as if they were unaware that their hug lasted a bit too long to be considered strictly platonic. His hands slid down her back, lingered at her waist for a moment, and hers followed the lines of his shoulders and upper arms, resting in the crooks of his elbows as they continued to talk.

"Okay. How about now then?" Stiles proposed.

"Right now?"

"Yeah, we could pick her up...go somewhere – just the three of us. What do you say?"

It was impossible to hide the excitement in her voice when she answered, "I say...yes."

"Great," he smiled.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Lydia's head is on Stiles's shoulder, and he is twirling the ends of her hair in his fingertips.

"Then what happened?" he asks.

"We decided to take Prada to the dog park in Andrews Hill, so she could play off-leash for a while."

"That's right. Do you remember what you said to me when we got to your house?"

"No. Tell me."

"You reminded me that we had an English test the next day, and I was disappointed 'cause I thought maybe you changed your mind..."

"Stiles..."

"But _then_ you said...if I wanted, we could study at yours after."

She covers her face with her hand. "That was my convoluted way of telling you I wanted to be with you."

"I caught on eventually," he purrs, pulling her hand aside, then holding her even closer. "And just so you know, I wanted to be with you too – every single minute." His lips find the corner of her mouth before he asks, "What happened next?"

"We went inside – together, like we were always meant to..."

* * *

Prada came running when Lydia and Stiles entered the house; fluffy black and white bundle of affection charging down the hallway, excited barks sounding and tail enthusiastically wagging as her tiny paws skidded across the hardwood floors.

Coming home to her was always one of the highlights of Lydia's day, but that afternoon, _with Stiles_...it was even better.

"There's my sweet pea!" Lydia greeted her, completely forgetting that she didn't normally use the nickname in front of anyone else.

Extending her arms and kneeling to give her a cuddle, she smiled unreservedly as her pup whined with satisfaction and nuzzled her neck. Lydia remembers how Prada calmed as she kissed her head and rubbed her ears, then hopped out of her lap, whole body wiggling about as she looked up at Stiles.

"Hi Prada," he cooed as he crouched beside Lydia.

At first, the Papillon timorously reversed a few paces.

But as soon as he gently reassured her, "C'mere, cutie. It's okay..." she leapt forward, setting her front paws on his knees and stretching up to sniff his jaw.

"See...she remembers you," Lydia told Stiles, watching his smile grow as Prada came nose to nose with him.

"It's probably because I kept bribing her with treats last time I was here."

With a roll of her eyes, Lydia scoffed, "Right... I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you carried her around like a baby the entire time."

"I couldn't help it," he playfully argued. "She's so small, and there's all those stairs for her to climb...and she kept looking at me with those big brown eyes. You know?"

Oh... _Lydia knew._ She knew all too well just how persuasive big brown eyes could be...especially ones with gold flecks. The kind that never stopped becoming more fascinating, more revealing of the inherent goodness behind them, and which, if she allowed herself to, she might be tempted to stare into for hours. The kind that were gazing back at her with captivating intensity and a distinct fondness that she was beginning to crave more each day.

"She manages just fine the rest of the time," she informed him, loosely maintaining control of her vocal cords.

"You mean..."

"Uh-huh," she nodded. "You may have been sneaking her treats, Stilinski..." Lydia noted, patting his shoulder as she stood up, "but _you_ were definitely the one eating out of _her_ hand...or should I say paw?"

Speechless, Stiles gaped at her, head swishing left to right as amusement boosted the corners of his mouth.

"I'm going to get changed. Try not to get suckered into giving her the keys to the Jeep."

He shook with quiet laughter under her palm. "I'll try."

When she was halfway upstairs, she turned around. "Would you mind getting her leash? It's hanging in the hall closet."

"No problem."

"Oh, and her ball too?"

"Where's that?"

"Ask her... She'll show you," Lydia grinned.

"I should have guessed."

As she approached the top, she heard Stiles question, "Prada, where's your ball? Will you show me?"

The ticking of the pup's nails on the floor, followed by the shuffle of his sneakers told Lydia they were headed towards the kitchen.

Still smiling, Lydia went to her room, dropped her handbag on her bed, then relieved her feet of the high-heeled Mary Janes she wore. She quickly washed up in the adjoining bathroom, trading her burgundy leather skirt and tailored shirt for a knit floral top, jeans, and a pair of suede ankle boots. Once she put her keys, phone, and wallet into a smaller purse, she checked her reflection in the mirror, combed through the curled ends of her hair, touched up her lip gloss, and headed out.

She remembers the moment she paused at the top of the stairs. Stiles was standing below, head tilted down, eyes somewhat timidly aimed at her, and Lydia was unexpectedly nervous...like she was going on a date.

The thing was...she didn't get nervous before dates. The only exception, nearly ten months prior, when they went to the Winter Formal together. That night, he looked at her the same way. Same arched brows and cute half-smile. Same shift from one foot to the other and fidgety fingers tapping the newel post.

The result – her nerves transformed into excitement – same undeniable flutter inside, only this time, more powerful and closer to her heart.

Taking a deliberate breath, Lydia grasped the banister, striving not to make a fool of herself by tripping down the steps because she couldn't tear her eyes away from Stiles.

"Ready?" he asked as she safely reached the bottom, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"Yeah," she confirmed, scarcely emitting a whisper.

She remembers that Stiles found the rest of his smile as he offered his arm to her – same as he had underneath a starry sky on the night of the formal. It almost brought her to tears, but she was just too happy to cry. Instead, she linked her right elbow with his left, and the droplets evaporated.

Together, they exited the house, Prada blithely trotting ahead of them.

At the park, the tall autumn grass seemed to be beckoning them closer, its flexible blades swaying in the wind, late afternoon sunbeams lending a slightly amber hue. Lydia and Stiles spread out a blanket and sat side by side, knees touching, hands inches apart. They talked while playing fetch with Prada, laughed when she quit in favor of chasing her tail and rolling in the first of the scattered leaves. Ultimately, she wore herself out and collapsed across Stiles's lap with a contented sigh. The image of them – two that meant more to Lydia than most, bonding so naturally, tugged at her heartstrings in an indescribable way.

"She doesn't do this with just anyone, you know," she confided as she gently stroked the bridge of Prada's nose. "You made a friend for life."

When she glanced at Stiles, his smile was soft and receptive.

It was quiet for a spell, sun sinking lower in the sky as they watched the pup peacefully drift to sleep.

"Prada's not from some renowned breeder or even a local pet shop, is she?"

"No. She isn't," Lydia wistfully acknowledged.

"Will you tell me...about the day you got her?"

In the years since Prada had come into her life, no one had ever asked that before. Lydia already knew that Stiles wasn't like anyone else, but he proved it to her again and again, in ways she never could have anticipated, and it never ceased to amaze her.

She drifted closer to him – just a little, just enough to appease _that_ _pull_ which was getting harder to suppress each day.

"I was ten years old. It was a few weeks after my father moved out. Well, the first time he moved out," she amended with a sardonic edge. "My mom and I were supposed to be driving to Hollatine to see this art exhibit. It was a beautiful summer day, so we had the windows open. We were stopped at the intersection of Juniper and 57th, you know...by the old textile factory."

"Yeah, that's not far from Bailey Field. My dad used to drive past there when he'd drop Scott and me off for little league practice."

She remembers the picture that popped into her head – Noah at the helm of the Jeep and the two boys wearing their BH Cubs uniforms, sitting in the back seat...most likely giggling over something Stiles said. It filled her with warmth and made her smile.

She also remembers the tangled web of what-ifs that followed. They dragged at her heart with a heavy sadness; the weight of all the years she missed with Stiles feeling more concrete than usual.

"Lydia... What is it?" his voice broke through as her smile began to fade.

Brushing an errant strand of hair away from her face, Lydia turned her gaze from the horizon to Stiles. His brows were furrowed, eyes searching...as if in pursuit of the source of her pain.

Without bothering to hide the twang of remorse, she explained, "I was just thinking...how nice it would've been if we were close back then."

His lips parted and sculpted a subtle O. "Yeah, it would have," he agreed.

There was no trace of resentment in his reply. She remembers what a relief that was. Even clearer, she remembers what it felt like when Stiles carefully took her hand, tenderness of his touch unburdening her as their digits neatly strung together, one at a time.

And when he added, "We're close now though. I think some things are just...meant to be," she remembers the kaleidoscope of butterflies that swiftly emerged, how their wings not only tickled away every last trace of sorrow from her heart but also uplifted it, allowing her lungs more room to expand.

Lydia leaned towards Stiles, pressed the side of her temple into his shoulder, and held her inhale. She released it when she felt his cheek connect with her forehead and his free hand lay flat against her back, drawing her still closer.

"Tell me more," he encouraged. "You were at the intersection..."

"We were waiting for the light to change...and even with the noise of the engine and all the other traffic, I could hear this whimpering. I looked out the window...and there was this battered cardboard box next to a few bags of trash. I could have sworn I saw it move...just a fraction of an inch. I told my mom, and she said it was probably nothing."

Straightening up, Lydia went on, "But, Stiles, I was _so sure_. I couldn't let it go. So before my mom could stop me, I got out of the car. When I opened the box, there she was – hunched up in one corner...this tiny, barely living, little thing. She couldn't have been more than six weeks old, and she was so frail and malnourished. She was trembling, looking up at me like she had been expecting me all along."

Lydia's eyes were prickling with tears. She saw them accumulate in Stiles's eyes, two glossy puddles welling above his bottom lashes.

He ran a hand over his face, briefly gripping his jaw while confessing, "Okay, so... I feel even worse about what I said now."

"You couldn't have known."

"That's just it – no matter how Prada came to you, she's family. She's...part of you, and that makes her important to me too." He looked down at their joined hands. When he spoke again, the raw emotion he conveyed was palpable. "I just... I get... Well, I literally go out of my freaking mind when I think about anything happening to you."

Lydia pursed her lips. It wasn't the first time he had said something like that to her. She remembered him – sophomore year, bruises on his face that made her wince, eyes pleading, hands reaching, heart open, words tumbling from his mouth...

 _But you know how I'll feel? I'll be devastated. And if you die...I will literally go out of my freaking mind._

Only five months earlier, but so much had happened since that night... So many things had changed... _She changed_ – in ways she may never have done without Stiles in her life.

Lydia was nearly carried astray by a runaway train of thought, but he pulled her back one more time.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, mistaking her silence for discomfort. "You're trying to tell me about Prada, and I'm making this harder for you."

She shook her head. "No, you aren't."

"I'm not?"

"No, you're just telling me how you feel and..." she trailed off as he started gliding his thumb along her index finger.

"And what?"

She wondered if he had any idea how profoundly he influenced her. Did he know how affecting his touch was? That his stare was all-consuming? That his words held more weight than anyone else's?

Lydia was already fully aware that she would go out of her mind if anything happened to Stiles. It was something she realized over the summer but hadn't been able to vocalize. Yet, on that sunny afternoon, without even trying, two words were suddenly falling slowly from her lips...

"I understand."

He was quiet, eyes searching again, that time shimmering with either awe or disbelief. She wasn't sure which.

"I understand," she repeated, hoping to get her meaning across.

The wondrous smile that graced his lips in response, told her that he did.

"How do you always know how to make me feel better?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same question," she remarked, placing their joined hands in her lap.

Their eyes remained locked, only uncoupling when Prada yawned and flipped over; belly up, ears splayed out like monarch wings, four tiny paws saluting the autumn sky. They both dotingly regarded her before gravitating back to each other.

"So what happened after you found her?"

"I... I picked her up and wrapped her in this yellow cardigan that I was wearing. By then, my mom had pulled over, gotten out of the car, and was thoroughly annoyed with me. All she could see was how dirty Prada was. But I begged her to take us to Deaton's clinic. She only agreed so I'd get back in the car."

"What makes you think that?"

"I may have threatened to walk there myself if she wouldn't."

Stiles laughed. "That sounds like the Lydia I know."

"Best part is, I didn't even know the way to the clinic from where we were."

"I bet you'd have figured it out. What happened next?"

"Once we got there, Deaton examined her and cleaned her up. He figured she had been separated from her mother for at least a day or two. She was really weak, and he made it clear that she was going to need constant care. My mother wanted to leave her there. She said it was too big a commitment, that it was going to take up too much time and she had all these plans for the summer."

"What did you do?"

"I started bargaining with her, insisting that I'd take care of her all by myself. I know every kid says that to their parents...but I _really_ meant it. I wanted to be responsible for someone – for her. I found her after all, and maybe it's crazy...but I loved her already."

"It's not crazy. Not at all," Stiles empathizes. "And evidently you convinced her..."

"I'm not so sure... My mom was pretty irritated that I was arguing with her in front of Deaton, but at the very least, _he_ seemed to believe me. Just when I thought I was going to have to leave Prada there, he casually pointed out that she was probably a purebred Papillon. After that...let's just say my mother changed her tune."

"You really think that was the reason?" he questioned as he put his hand on Prada's ribs and began to pet her.

"I dunno... It could have been out of guilt too."

"About?"

"The fact that my father had been promising to get me a puppy for years...but never made any real effort to do it."

"Oh..."

"Wasn't the only promise he didn't keep," she shrugged. "Anyway, Deaton gave me detailed instructions for how to care for her. I had been teaching myself shorthand, and I took notes on the back of some blank employee application forms."

"I can just see you..." he commented, reaching out to jostle the end of one of her curls.

She loved when he did that.

"I bet you couldn't wait to get her home."

"Yeah, I was determined to get her healthy. Over the next weeks, I did every single thing he suggested...and then some. I bottle fed her until she was strong enough for puppy food. I kept her clean and warm. I would sneak her into my bed at night, so she wouldn't be alone. I even put my entire allowance towards getting everything she needed and carried her to the clinic once a week for checkups, so my mom wouldn't have to drive me. Deaton was so kind and so patient. He never even asked for a penny from me. When I offered, he told me it wouldn't be right because I was the one doing all the real work. It didn't feel like work though. I love taking care of her. By the end of the summer, Prada was thriving."

"She's really lucky you were the one who found her."

Lydia remembers the sensation of heat flourishing in her cheeks. "Anyone would have done the same. I mean, look at her... She's so sweet."

"Yeah, she is," Stiles agreed, but he was gazing into Lydia's eyes when he said it.

No one had ever called her sweet or even so much as implied it. She had never even wished for it...until she realized how much she admired that quality in him. Lydia remembers thinking that if anyone were ever going to call her sweet, she wanted it to be Stiles.

"I'm sorry she went through so much, but I'm glad it worked out. Even your mom seems to like her now."

"She came around...eventually. They didn't get off to a good start though."

"No?"

"The first day Prada was feeling better, she somehow got into my mom's closet and chewed on the strap of one of her designer handbags. My mom was livid, but I thought it was kind of fitting, and I hadn't named her yet so..."

Stiles chuckled. "Ah... I didn't know that! It's so much cooler that way."

"I think so too," she smiled.

They stayed at the park, watching the sky change color as the sun set, then went back to her house to have dinner and study.

It was nearly midnight when Lydia and Stiles said good night. As she stood by the front door with him, she remembers wondering if he was going to kiss her cheek again.

He didn't. Not that night.

But two days later, when he went to nab another mint from her pocket, she didn't stop him...

And he thanked her with a kiss that was just as memorable as the first.

* * *

 **Present Day**

Stiles leans his forehead against Lydia's. His fingertips continue to coast up and down her arm as they have been for several minutes.

"Feel any better?" he whispers.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Did I mention how glad I am that you're here?"

She can tell that he is smiling when he answers, "You did, but I don't mind hearing it again."

"I don't know what I'd do without you by my side."

"I don't know what I'd do without you either, but we don't have to worry about it 'cause...we're meant to be together, just like you were meant to find Prada."

"You're right. We were always meant to be," she echoes, gently carding her fingers through his hair and stretching up to kiss his brow.

Closing her eyes, Lydia lets herself bask in the limitless depth of their bond. Then, she moves to his lips, and it's slow and delicate but brimming with emotion. When they part, noses still touching, they both slowly exhale.

"It's been almost an hour," Stiles points out. "Scott should be in any min—"

He is interrupted by the click of the door as it opens, and they both spring from the couch.

Lydia's heart starts to race, but Stiles winds his arm around her as Scott walks over to join them.

"Prada's gonna be fine," he assures them.

Pressing her palm to her sternum, Lydia listens while Scott fills them in.

"She doesn't have any stones or growths, just a bacterial infection that settled in her left kidney. She needs a course of IV meds, which means she has to spend the night here, but tomorrow you can bring her home. Deaton has a prescription for some antibiotics...which she'll need to take for a week. She should be feeling more like herself in a couple of days."

As relief floods her system, Lydia braces her hand on his arm, "Scott... Thank you."

"You're welcome," he smiles. "I'm going to be here tonight to monitor the Husky that had surgery. Deaton is fine with both of you staying too if you want."

"Yes, definitely," they say together.

"Can we see her?" Stiles asks.

"Yeah, sure. She's in the recovery room."

"We'll be right behind you," he tells Scott.

With that, their friend nods and steps into the hallway.

Then, Stiles gives Lydia one more much-needed moment of intimate tranquility. He shelters her in one of his healing hugs, tells her everything is alright, calls her _his sweet angel_ as his lips mark the place where he first kissed her. The same place where he left an unexpected yet indelible imprint of his affection. One that will always remind her of spearmint drops, autumn leaves, and afternoons in the sun with the two she loves most.


End file.
